


Of Legends and Fire: The Fellowship

by Spacewhalewriting



Series: Of Legends and Fire [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Boromir Lives, Eowyn is gay, F/F, F/M, Of legends and fire, Slow Burn, what if lord of the rings had witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacewhalewriting/pseuds/Spacewhalewriting
Summary: TLDR: What's a single mom to do about all these quests?





	1. Rivendale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: What's a single mom to do about all these quests?

_It was a beautiful spring, but the mountain was always beautiful. The children had Thorin’s sturdy blood and had played outside all winter, but Silwen enjoyed warmth and was relieved when the sun finally came out from behind dull winter skies. She basked in it, slowing her pace in the outdoor corridor as the girls ran out in front of her, brushing her silver skirts. Thorin walked by her side, they arm in arm, he hulking in his furs and wearing his ancestral crown. As his queen consort she wore no crown but a thin silver circlet in her wiry hair; she had long since taken to braiding her untameable hair in a dwarven fashion. Their twin girls shrieked and laughed as they chased each other around their parents. Thorin tugged her towards him to get her attention and she kissed him._

_“Amrâlimê, all’s right with the world.” He murmured._

She woke and was alone.

The mountain was a distant memory. Silwen was gone and Siladhriel was once more. Silwen had died with Thorin eighty years ago, and that she remembered with an ache as she lay there, wondering if she didn’t open her eyes it might not be true- that if she held on to the dream hard enough, he might come back to her and all would be right with the world. She held tight to him, his face, his voice in her ear.

“ _Amme_?” A light voice nearby spoke in gentle elvish, a weight settling on the edge of her bed. Loathe to let go, she waited a beat before opening her eyes. Miriel had Thorin’s dark, wavy hair, but it was Siladhriel’s own eyes that looked curiously at her. She reached out a finger and caught the teardrop on her mother’s cheek before it fell to the pillow. “You’re crying.” She said. Siladhriel caught her hand and held it to her cheek, closing her eyes once more for a moment.

“I’m awake, little coin.” She said, and she was back in the house of Elrond, where no evils dwelled. Miriel smiled, her berry bitten lips turning upwards at the nickname she had had as a little girl. Had she been of the race of man she would have been near the end of her life, but with Dwarvish blood and whatever Siladhriel had provided, she was a young woman nearing her prime, robed in plum, with heavy lidded green eyes and a slender, startlingly pretty face. Siladhriel’s youngest, by minutes. Siladhriel had faced such fear during her pregnancy, but with the help of Lady Galadriel she had birthed two perfect girls and they were her comfort.

“It’s today, the council.” Said Miriel. Siladhriel gathered herself and sat up, Miriel pretending not to look as she wiped her eyes.

“Where is your sister?” asked Siladhriel. Miriel stood up, pulling her mother from bed as if she were old and needed the help. She let her.

“She’s in the trees, she likes it here in Rivendale. More adventure than in Lothlorien, she says.” said Miriel. Siladhriel sat at her vanity to brush her long silver hair and Miriel kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll go find her.” Siladhriel watched her go in the mirror, a sense of foreboding coming over her. These were evil times; in the eighty years she had dwelt with the elves, trying to find a place for herself and her daughters among them, the world outside had changed. Grown darker and more dangerous than the days when she traveled with the company. This council meeting hailed men, elves, and dwarves- all civilized races from all parts of Arda, for it was a matter that concerned them all.

____________________________________

“Baerandwen!”

She heard her name from the ground and appeared, sliding down a tilted branch and jumping off to land lightly on her feet. She was the older of them, lanky and silver haired, she was the spitting image of her mother except for her blue eyes.

“Am I late?” she asked, dusting off the travel clothes that she still wore. In soft green trousers and tunic, she had been nearly invisible in the branches, but Miriel knew her sister well enough to tell where she had been hiding.

“Would you care or would you walk in while Lord Elrond was talking?” Miriel teased. Baerandwen balked. She was carefree up until the point of authority, which she tried to studiously obey. Although she was a warrior she was also a scholar and learned of state matters, which to her required a strict observation of hierarchies.

“I would never. Not Lord Elrond.”

“Thranduil elvenking?”

“Yes, I definitely would interrupt him.” She said and they both grinned at each other. Truthfully they did not visit the Mirkwood elves and knew little of king Thranduil, but they knew their mother held low opinions of him.

“I hear his son will be there.”

“He has a son?” Baerandwen asked.

“His _handsome_ son.” Clarified Miriel. Baerandwen snorted, displaying a lack of grace that was entirely unelvish of her- but she had always been the rougher of the two, and proud of it. Though on the subject of handsome sons she desired to say little. Miriel’s lip quirked up in a crooked smile at her sister’s reaction. “Come, we will be late if we don’t hurry. You should change into something fit for a council.”

___________________________________

There were representatives from Gondor, Laketown, Erebor, Mirkwood, the Shire and all manner of civilized races; Siladhriel was the representative for Lothlorien, Baerandwen and Miriel flanking her on both sides, there to learn matters of the current political tides. Baerandwen had changed into a soft robe the same color as her traveling clothes, her silver blonde hair loose like her sister’s. Lord Elrond looked soberly around at the gathering, all voices hushed as he raised his above them.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old.” He said “You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate- this one doom.” He said, and gestured to the pedestal in the middle of their congregation. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.” A hobbit with curly brown hair came forward and placed a single gold ring on the surface, stepping back and seating himself carefully next to Gandalf. When he did so, it felt like the air had rushed from the room, but that did not prevent the whispers. They all marveled for a long moment at this unassuming thing of evil, then the man from Gondor spoke first, a chiseled man with windswept hair named Boromir.

“It is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!” He said. There were murmurs. Another spoke out, a stern faced man with dark eyes.

“You cannot wield it. None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

“And what would a ranger know of this matter?” Boromir said dismissively. A blonde elf garbed in green leaped to his feet.

“This is no mere ranger,” he said, “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And you owe him your allegiance.” The tension in the air, if possible, heightened. Aragorn. This was Aragorn? The twins had met him as children several times on trips to Rivendale, but it had been a good sixty years or so since they had seen him and he had certainly grown. He was a man now, his face stern and chiseled. When they had met he had been an orphan child fostered in the house of Elrond, with no kingly attributes to his name. Baerandwen found herself wondering if the king was truly there, what business had this man of Gondor, Boromir, had to suggest they wield an unwieldable weapon? Boromir was not cowed.

“Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.” He said bitterly. Miriel leaned curiously to see him around the others, seated. His face had gone quite dark. Gandalf was the next to speak.

“Aragorn is right. We cannot use it.” He said. Elrond’s rich tones called out a challenge to them.

“You have only one choice.” He said. “The Ring must be destroyed.” One of the dwarves, a redhead with a thick braided beard leaped up with the fire of his people in his veins.

“What are we waiting for?” He roared, charging the pedestal with a cry and striking the ring full force with his ax- he was repelled by what seemed to be a miniature blast wave, shattering his ax and knocking him to the ground. At the moment it was struck Siladhriel flinched, the image of a figure of fire with deep, pupil-less eyes forcing itself upon her, one foul hand outreached. It came with a hiss and then a roar-

“ _Amme_?”

Miriel had murmured concernedly beside her, her light touch on Siladhriel’s arm bringing her from the vision and to the present. She was sweating and suddenly she knew that this ring was forged by the same hand that had forged her. She rejected it, hands under her long sleeves clenched into fists, nails digging into the meat of her palms.

_He is not my master._

Elrond spoke again.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.” He said, soberly looking at each of them in turn. “One of you must do this.” There was a silence eventually broken by the tired voice of Boromir.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland. Riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!” He painted a vivid picture but the woodland elf spoke up once more, standing indignantly.

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!” He cried. Gimli also leaped to his feet, brandishing the stave of his broken ax.

“And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?!” Voices were raised all over the council terrace, men and elves and dwarves getting to their feet to assert their points over the heads of the others. As they argued, Siladhriel could feel her robes grow damp with sweat. It was speaking to her, that language that she had not once used in eighty years, not since the cave against the goblins. She fought the invasion, eyes locked onto the ring, not hearing the voices ringing about her.

“Do you not understand that while we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron's power grows?! None can escape it!” cried Gandalf over the crowd, waving his arms as if herding them into a more favorable mental state. Finally one voice rose above the others, reedy and nervous.

“I will take it!” Cried the hobbit who had brought the ring forth. His voice rose higher as the council’s chatter began to die away. “I will take it!” There was a long silence. He lowered his voice, looking around at the council who stared. “I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though- I do not know the way...” He trailed off, eyes frightened, and Gandalf sighed audibly, walking to him and placing his hands on Frodo’s shoulders.

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear.” He said, gazing down at the hobbit with grandfatherly eyes, though weary. Aragorn came forward, dropping down on one knee, arms crossed over it.

“If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.” He said. Another came forward and he stood. It was the passionate elf who had argued first with Gimli.

“And you have my bow.” He said. Gimli himself came forward, not to be edged out of this venture by an elf, looking grimly up at this rival.

“And my axe!” He said. Baerandwen had stood in the confusion, attempting to bring quiet to the council and failing before Frodo’s voice had broken through. She stepped forward, making Siladhriel grip Miriel’s hand in silent alarm.

“You have my blades.” Said Baerandwen. Siladhriel nearly stood, but she could not break her daughter’s word for her once it had been made. Feeling herself begin to crack in two, she gripped Miriel’s hand, but Miriel slipped her hand out of her mother’s, standing and striding purposefully to her sister.

“Where she goes, I go. You have my hands and what magics I can summon from them.” She said, stooping and kissing Frodo’s forehead. “Our fate is in your hands.” Boromir came forward to pledge his sword but Siladhriel did not hear the rest of the council meeting, trapped in a swirl of fear and reason battling each other. She had once been young of heart, as fresh and innocent as her two girls, knowing only of the evils outside her little village what she could read in a book. She had gone on a quest and it had changed her. She wanted to scream at them not to go, but she knew that once oathed, they were to go whether she wanted them to or not.

_________________________________________

They were to gather supplies and leave the next day. Siladhriel was furious, stopping Baerandwen with a touch too light to betray her mood. She didn’t want to make a scene. As the council broke around them, she murmured to her daughter, but her eyes were not on her- they were behind her, focused on Gimli.

“Later, we will discuss this.” She said, then let her go, breaking away and lifting her skirts to catch him.

“Gimli, son of Gloin!” She said, stopping when he faced her. “I much desire news from the mountain.” He made a noise of exclamation through his beard, not knowing why this she elf would address him without introduction and demand news of a dwarvish holding.

“Who are you to demand news from me?” He asked and she responded like the snapping of a whip, fire rising in her eyes.

“Pup! I was in company with your father for the retaking of Erebor, you owe me respect as an elder.” She said. He sputtered through his beard, totally caught off guard.

“L-lady Silwen! I- I did not- I don’t-” He was horrified but she brushed that aside, putting her hand on his arm and guiding him away from the terrace.

“Calm your tongue and give me the news I desire.”

They walked for a while and he did. Erebor was not restored to its former glory, but still thriving once more. Gloin had since succumbed to old age, and Siladhriel felt a twinge for her old friend. It brought back the mourning in her heart, and she wondered if Bilbo was still living. Eighty years was a blink of her eye, but hobbits were not ageless. She hoped that where he was, alive or buried, he had had all the happiness on Arda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope yall enjoyed this new chapter; new chapters of part 1 are actually coming as well, so keep looking for them.  
> Amme is elvish for mother


	2. The Fellowship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Siladhriel is pissed. Miriel and Baerandwen go traipsing off into the wilderness. Daddy issues are a thing

It was not happiness that greeted Siladhriel when she got back to her rooms. Baerandwen knew that she was in trouble, and she was waiting.

“Where’s your sister?” Siladhriel asked, her tone icy.

“She’s coming. She wanted to talk with the ringbearer. What’s wrong, _Amme_?” Baerandwen asked, coming to her and taking her hand tenderly. Siladhriel fought the urge to reject the affectionate gesture. _You’re old enough to know what’s wrong_. But that wasn’t fair and she knew it, but she was still angry.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong??”

“ _Amme_...” Baerandwen murmured appealingly. Siladhriel felt like weeping, or screaming, or throwing something, but with time had come better control of her temper. Mostly, she felt helpless, and that lit in her a fury that she didn’t know how to quell.

______________________________

Miriel had indeed stopped to talk with Frodo; she found him earnest and charming, if terrified of their quest. She left him with reassuring words and left for her mother’s guest chambers. On her way, she glimpsed Aragorn and wished to greet him as well, but he was disappearing with a pretty elf she recognized as Arwen, Lord Elrond’s daughter, and chose not to disturb the two. As a child he had always had a special place in his heart for her, and Miriel could not bring herself to interrupt them. Instead she returned to the chambers with a light heart, but as she opened the door it fell. Baerandwen and Siladhriel we facing off in a way that said Miriel had interrupted something. They did not fight in their family, and it made Miriel feel uneasy.

“There you are.” Siladhriel said sharply.

“What’s going on?” Miriel asked.

“- _Amme_ is upset-”

“-You oathed yourself-”

They had begun at the same time and stopped at the same time. Siladhriel sat down on the bed and put her face in her hands. In the face of her foolhardy child’s mistake and her gentlest child’s determination to protect her sister, she wept helplessly.

“I know I cannot stop you, but it feels like you’re being torn from my breast.” She said, gasping a little at the end as the tears came. Miriel went to her at once, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her.

“ _Amme_ , don’t cry.” She said. Baerandwen took her role as the eldest very seriously, but when it came to their mother it was Miriel who was the comforting hand, especially when Siladhriel had her melancholy days. Miriel gave her a look and Baerandwen came to sit on Siladhriel’s other side.

“You don’t know how you will be changed. Neither of you know.” Explained Siladhriel. She took a hand from each other her daughters and held them as if to keep them close to her. “Look at me. Hear me. Without my journey I would never have had you, but it brought me the worst heartache I have ever felt, and scars I hold to this day. I almost lost my arm, and many lost their lives. Many whom I loved.”

“ _Amme_ , you and Lady Galadriel taught us well, there is nothing we are afraid of.” Said Baerandwen. Siladhriel smiled ruefully through her tears.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, _zêzantê_ ” she said, using her eldest daughter’s nickname from when she was tiny. “I’m afraid that you don’t know what you’ve done.”

__________________________________

It was a beautiful autumn day as the fellowship set out, the sun glowing golden through the falling leaves of the elegant structures around them. Siladhriel had said goodbye before they had reached the borders of Rivendale, giving both her daughters a gift. Baerandwen wore hers on each thigh, two small axes strapped to her legs, good for throwing and close combat. Miriel carried hers in a pouch at her hip, a small vial of liquid that would not leave her person. It was with this and a kiss that they left Rivendale. The day was sunny and crisp, they wore cloaks but did not yet feel the need to pull them close about themselves for warmth. Miriel found herself walking beside the man from Gondor, and his eyes upon her.

“Why don’t you carry a sword?” he asked her, “Or arrows? Do you not feel the need for a weapon on this journey?” She smiled, her green eyes gentle.

“I have my own weapons, master Boromir.” She said, simply. He looked at her strangely, as she carried none unless she was to take the enemy with her hands. “I am a sorceress.” She clarified. He seemed to wince away from her with an “oh”, an action she did not like- and his pace quickened, leaving her for the front of the group. Baerandwen came to her side as she looked after him.

“Was it something you said?” Baerandwen quipped. Miriel elbowed her, but she did not know. Magic was common among elves; it was rare that they met someone of the race of men, so Miriel did not know if sorceress was a foul word among them. She tried not to let it bother her heart too much, knowing that as long as they held to their common goal they did not have to be friends.

______________________________________________

The journey would take them along the west side of the Misty Mountains for forty days, then to the Gap of Rohan, which was quite similar to the journey from Lothlorien to Rivendale. The twins had rarely been outside Lothlorien, but both were scholars and knew their maps and those who ruled which parts. A week of walking had taken them deep into the wilds; they stopped in the highlands to rest and eat. Miriel watched Boromir teaching Merry and Pippin to use their little swords, clapping her hands and laughing merrily along with Aragorn as the two hobbits wrestled the larger man to the ground.

“If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note they’re not- I’d say we were taking the long way round.” Said Gimli. He turned to Gandalf, who puffed on his pipe pensively. “Gandalf. We could pass through the mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome!” Baerandwen had been listening, sharpening her axes with a small whet stone, and her ears pricked at the sound of Balin’s name. One of her mother’s traveling companions. Gimli was more polite to her and Miriel than he was to Legolas, being Lady Siladhriel’s daughters, and she had no fear of including herself in the conversation. There were no longer any dwarves of their father’s line that they might meet, but any gathering place of dwarvish culture was a sweet temptation to Baerandwen.

“Yes, Gandalf, why don’t we?” She asked. Her stomach fluttered delightfully at the thought of things she couldn’t have. Namely, some vague connection to her father. Gandalf’s eyes darkened.

“No, Baerandwen, Gimli. I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice.” He said. Disappointment soured Baerandwen’s pretty face but she did not question him, merely going back to her ax whetting. They were beautiful weapons and she would care for them until she couldn’t carry them anymore. Legolas leaped up beside them, light on his feet, looking into the distance at something they couldn’t see. Sam was the first one to spot it, squinting.

“What is that?” He asked. Gimli dismissed it.

“Nothing! Just a wisp of cloud!” He said. Boromir struggled to his feet under the weight of his two attackers, his face going grim as he looked out over the mountains.

“It’s moving fast. Against the wind.” He said. Miriel and Baerandwen looked in unison, Baerandwen re-holstering her axes and the both of them standing. Something was terribly wrong. Miriel sniffed the wind, but her senses were not as attuned as her mother and she caught nothing. It was Legolas with his excellent elven vision that saw what was coming first.

“Crebain from Dunland!” He called.

“Hide!” Shouted Aragon, and everyone scrambled. Water was poured over their cooking fire and rucksacks were grabbed, everyone running for the closest cover they could find. The cloud descended, a flock of carrion crows cackling murderously as they swooped low over the campsite. The passage south was being watched. They passed in a haze of wings and harsh cries; when the air cleared the group came out of hiding cautiously. Gandalf looked after the cloud, knowing that these spies of Saruman would be reporting their movements.

“We must take the Pass of Caradhras.” He said, grimly. They all gathered their things and pushed on, Miriel falling into step beside her sister. They both knew the pass of Caradhras was dangerous; the snowcapped mountains could be hardly called a pass, but the enemy had found them and they had no other choice.

___________________________________

The pass was a hard journey; in the lowlands it was a mild fall, but up in the mountains the snow lay thick upon the rock, making the going slow. They pulled their cloaks tightly about them- all except Legolas, and the twins who thanks to their mother’s blood, made their own heat. They walked close to the hobbits, Miriel taking Sam and Frodo under the great wings of her cape and Baerandwen taking Merry and Pippin huddled close to her. Frodo stumbled in the snow, his foot catching on some hidden rock; before Miriel could catch him, he tumbled back down the way they had come- she reached for him and missed, she and Sam falling into the snow themselves. Aragorn caught Frodo, but as soon as he was to his feet he clutched at his chest where the ring hung, not finding it. The caravan stopped. Boromir found it in the snow, lifting it to eye level and gazing at this small object of evil.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing....” He began, trailing off as he contemplated it. His eyes had gone cloudy, fixed upon the ring and Miriel knew what he was thinking. What evil- yes- but what power he held in his very hand, what possibility. “So little a thing.”

Aragorn spoke up, his hands on Frodo’s shoulders. He exchanged glances with Miriel, both of them with hackles raised to protect Frodo. This was not the will of the council, nor was it right. The ring must remain in Frodo’s hands. It was too dangerous.

“Boromir!” He said sharply. Boromir’s head snapped towards him, looking bewildered as if through a fog. Miriel noticed that Aragorn’s hand was on the handle of his sword. She couldn’t imagine having to fight one of their own company, but the tension in the air was palpable. If need be she might be able to restrain Boromir, but she did not wish to.

“Boromir. Return it to the ringbearer.” She said, raising her voice so it carried across the snow. Boromir looked to her in that same fog and in his eyes she could see the grip it had on him- she did not know the voices that whispered to him, but she could tell that there was magic here at work, reaching out to touch his arm.

_Release him._

His eyes cleared, the clouds breaking from his face. He returned the ring with a small laugh, brushing it off as an imagined experience. Still he seemed bewildered, unsure of what was real but knowing his place in this grand scheme.

“As you wish. I care not!” He said, reaching out to ruffle Frodo’s hair. Frodo snatched it back and returned the ring to its place around his neck, his eyes wary and frightened. Aragorn relaxed his grip on his sword. Miriel opened her cloak once more for Frodo to seek its shelter, gathering the hobbits close to her and passing Boromir on her way up the mountain. She knew that in a way he was the weakest of them all; perhaps he and Aragorn both, for the race of men did not hold magic inherent and were vulnerable to its effects...Did that make him worthy of contempt? No, but of protection. To keep the fellowship together and ensure the success of their journey, Miriel knew that he was the one she must keep an eye on.

As they climbed it began to snow. The snow became a blizzard, and it was all the twins could do to keep the hobbits warm, frost clinging to eyelashes and hair, each breath a dragon’s puff of steam. It was choking, a swarm of snow that seemed to have no business being as violent as it was. They came to a ledge just barely big enough for them to fit double breasted, herding the hobbits long under their cloaks and hoping that the snow would stop soon. It was not until they heard a fell voice upon the air-

“It’s Saruman!” Gandalf shouted against the wind- Baerandwen felt fresh fear pierce her heart and for a moment did not understand until the mountain began to shake. Instinctively she looked up just as the first rocks fell from above, leaping back to flatten herself and Merry and Pippin to the rock wall, narrowly avoiding being struck. Snow came with the rocks, an onslaught that buried the company suddenly. There was silence on the surface until Legolas broke the surface, gasping. The others followed, digging their way out of the snowfall.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf we must turn back!” Aragorn shouted over the wind. They were in danger of more than frostbite. Baerandwen remembered Gimli’s suggestion, knowing that they still had to go back the same way they had come, but it was less dangerous than the road they were on now.

“Gandalf, let us go through Moria!” she shouted. “There can only be death here for us!”

“No!” he said, raising his voice against Saruman. Miriel knew no spell to counteract Saruman’s actions, only drawing Sam and Frodo close to her and flattening herself against the rock wall. The best she could do was protect them under the onslaught, murmuring an elvish charm under her breath as Gandalf faced the wind. He raised his staff, shouting his spell into the wind. It clawed at their exposed faces and hands, ripping at their skin with icy fingers. Lightning struck, followed by another onslaught of rock and snow from above. They cowered against the rock shelf, narrowly avoiding a crushing death as the debris fell past. Boromir pleaded with Gandalf.

“We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!” He said, but Aragorn was not having that suggestion.

“The Gap of Rohan takes us to close to Isengard!”

“We must get off the mountain somehow! We cannot fight him like this!” Shouted Baerandwen.

“The mines!” Shouted Gimli. “Let us go through the mines of Moria!” Gandalf looked grim, turning to each of the company in turn and finding himself outnumbered. He sighed.

“The ringbearer will decide.” He said. Frodo looked about at his companions, noting that their misery matched his own, his nose red and cheeks chapped from the icy winds.

“We will go through the mines.” He said, tremulously. Gandalf set his jaw.

“So be it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zêzantê is Neo-Khuzdul: "my first beard hair", an affectionate nickname


	3. The Deep of Moria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Daddy issues abound; orcs smell

It was nightfall when they reached the gates of Moria, though far less cold with the absence of snow; they had made it out of the pass and now could look forward to warm fires and good food. Miriel and Baerandwen journeyed close together now that they did not carry the hobbits along with them for warmth, communicating silently. As they released the ponies from their burden, Miriel glanced at her sister over the pony’s back, feeling her excitement at these gates. Gandalf poured over the surface of the mountain, muttering under his breath. Baerandwen perched herself upon a rock near Gandalf, pacing in excitement. She could only imagine what the city was like.

“How do we get in?” She asked. Gandalf knocked here and then there with his staff.

“Patience, Baerandwen.” He said. Then he stepped back and gestured. “It is Ithildin. It mirrors only starlight and moonlight.” As he stepped back the moon came out from behind a cloud and the rock wall was lit with runes and inscribed sigils. “Ah. It reads: ‘The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’” He said, following the words with his staff. Miriel had made it over and she put her hand on her sister’s shoe. Baerandwen stopped pacing, stiff with electricity. Hearing her lineal name had lit something in her.

“What does it mean?” She asked. Miriel looked up at her sister, her green eyes finding Baerandwen’s nervously clenched and trembling fists. She wondered if Baerandwen understood that they may be Durinsfolk, but that Erebor was their ancestral homeland, not Moria. It didn’t matter to the blonde, who grasped to every thread of her dwarvishness, to the father they had never known.

“It’s quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak a password and the doors will open.” Said Gandalf. He leaned his hands against the door, fingers spidering across the surface, and began to speak in elvish. Nothing happened. He chanted some more. Then he shoved his shoulder against the door, as if it were stuck and he could dislodge it. Guts quivering, Baerandwen sat down, drawing her legs close to herself. An hour passed. The company was dispersed around the gate, either sitting or leaning against something and listening to Gandalf try every elvish word in his vocabulary. Miriel had come to perch beside Baerandwen, her hand resting on top of her sister’s. They were murmuring to each other in the eerie mist surrounding the walls.

“You know that _amme_ never came here, nor likely did _adad_.” Whispered Miriel. Baerandwen squeezed her hand.

“These are Durin’s gates, we are Durinsfolk. There’s at least some familiarity in that, is there not?”

“Baer, you forget our mother’s blood. Gimli may very well know and respect _amme_ , but the borders between dwarf kin and elf kind are wide.” She murmured. Baerandwen turned her face away, she didn’t want to hear that- but in her heart she knew it was true. But-

“What about Balin?” She asked, “Gimli said his cousin Balin ruled Moria. Balin knows _amme_. And _adad_.” Miriel was silent for a moment, considering.

“I suppose.” She said, finally. Really, she knew the boundaries between herself and her rightful kin were clear and delineated because of her mixed blood, but Baerandwen in her haste to seek connections did not hesitate to think she may not be welcomed unless she revealed her bloodline, and even then maybe not by dwarves other than Balin. The dislike between their two races ran deep. She secretly supposed it was the dragon within Siladhriel that had brought her and Thorin together. Closer to the gate, Frodo finally stood, staring up at the doors in front of him.

“It’s a riddle.” He said. “Speak, friend, and enter. Gandalf?” he asked. Gandalf, puffing pensively on his pipe, looked up. “What’s the elvish word for friend?” Behind him, there were ripples in the water.

“ _Mellon_.” Gandalf spoke and there was a crack turning into a rumble. The ripples became small waves. Everyone had leaped to their feet, the sisters jumping down from their perch- moonlight shone into the pitch black hall, illuminating some cobbled floorstones but little else. They shuffled inside, Gandalf leading the way.

“Soon, master elf, you will be enjoying the fabled hospitality of dwarves!” Gimli bragged. Miriel’s nose might not be as sharp as her mother’s, but it was sharp and there was something wrong. The air was stale and there was a creeping undercurrent that she couldn’t identify right away. “Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone!” The words rolled rapturously from Gimli’s tongue. Gandalf stopped a moment and as the soft glow of his now lit staff cast dimly around them, Baerandwen had identified the smell that had unsettled Miriel so.

_It’s death._

“This is no mine, it’s a tomb.” Said Boromir, casting his gaze about. All around them were bodies, long mummified- a great battle had taken place here. Or a great slaughter. Gimli rushed foward, disbelieving.

“No!” He cried. Baerandwen was stricken where she stood. Legolas couched to pull an arrow from a body, knowing what it was by the shape of its head.

“Goblins.” He spat, quickly unsheathing an arrow of his own. Throughout the company, weapons were drawn. Miriel herself was glued to the spot; she had not been expecting a royal welcome, but she certainly had not been expecting this.

“We make for the gap of Rohan. We never should have come here.” Said Boromir, grimly. There was agreement throughout the group, those of them who had their senses about them making quick steps backwards for the door. Miriel took Baerandwen’s hand, but neither of them had time to process before there were shouts of alarm from the hobbits, Frodo suddenly disappearing back through the door by one leg- something had a hold of him, a huge something from the water. He went skidding across the rock, then lifted into the air. He screamed for Aragorn, the other hobbits slashing at the tentacle that held his leg with their little swords. They succeeded in beating it back, but as the tentacle descended into the water, more came flying out. The company came flooding through the doorway to meet it, Legolas releasing arrow after arrow at the parts of the attacker that they could see.

Baerandwen turned away from the doors of Moria, unable to grasp the carnage inside and releasing it instead for the carnage outside, unholstering her little axes and flinging herself into the fray- she launched from the doorway just as a tentacle grabbed Merry by the waist, leaping onto the same outcropping of rock she had previously perched on and slicing the tentacle in half as she landed. All around her it was chaos, Aragorn and Boromir hacking and slashing at the limbs around them. Frodo rose high into the air again by his ankle, struggling as the great mass of the creature’s head rose from the water. A dark maw opened.

“Legolas!” Shouted Miriel, “Aim for the eyes!” She had raised her hands to turn magic against it, but she was seized by the leg and also dragged across the rock towards the water- she shrieked, grabbing the arm that held her and sinking her fingers deep into the flesh- it sizzled and bubbled under her hands, releasing her to fall hard onto the rock. Her head hit the stone as she fell, leaving a spot of blood on the rock. Aragorn severed the injured limb as it retreated, Boromir waist deep in the water aiming for the one that held Frodo and catching him as he tumbled back to earth.

“Into the mines!” shouted Gandalf, and they abandoned the fight, running for all they were worth. Legolas sent arrow after arrow towards their attacker and each one landed, but it did not prevent it from dragging itself out of the water after them. Feelers caressed the wall of the mountain, reaching through the gates and pulling stone down with them. It blocked the moonlight as it did, and their footsteps took them running away from the rumbles as the gate fell around it. Finally, all was dark. Gandalf lit his staff and took stock of the company. Aragorn was supporting Miriel and Boromir was just now putting Frodo down, but the rest of them could stand on their own and no one was missing.

“We now have but one choice.” He said, grimly, and Baerandwen felt a chill, trying not to look at the mummified bodies around them. Bodies that could be her kin. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.” Miriel stood on her own two feet now, but Baerandwen still checked her injury. There was a little blood, but not anything to be overly concerned about. “Quietly now” Gandalf said as they began to follow him and his light. “Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”

________________________________

Gandalf was the only one who knew their path and so they followed, going deep down into the darkness, led only by this small light his staff gave off. To Miriel it felt like being naked in the dark. Baerandwen hadn’t said a word, though they tried not to speak lest they disturb the uncanny silence. A silence that can only come with the absence of a million lungs breathing, living around them. They took no food nor drink until they came to a cross roads- three passages that Gandalf had no memory of- and they stopped. Miriel was the healer between them, but Baerandwen set herself to cleaning her sister’s wound with a little bit of water.

“Why don’t we use some of what _amme_ gave you?” She whispered. Miriel shook her head.

“That’s precious. I won’t waste it on this, I’m fine.” She murmured. “Doesn’t even hurt.” She added for good measure. Baerandwen folded the bit of cloth she was using to dab and put it away.

“We’re good and lost now, I dare say.” Said Baerandwen. Her voice was light but Miriel thought she detected a bitter note. She turned to face her.

“I’m sorry.” She said, simply. Sorry, she supposed, that things had not happened the way Baerandwen had expected. Baerandwen didn’t answer, trying not to think too deeply about what surrounded them and let the numbness in her heart melt. She did not want to feel that right now, didn’t want to weep the way she might if she thought too long and hard on her disappointment. Before she could formulate something to say to deflect what she was feeling Gandalf uttered a noise of realization.

“Ah! It’s that way!” He said, nodding to one of the passages. Merry leaped up from where he had been smoking his pipe, exclaiming with relish.

“He’s remembered!”

“No...But the air doesn’t smell so foul down here.” Gandalf said, starting down the steps of the passage with his hat in one hand and staff in the other. They filed in after him, following down the passage and out into a hall. Gandalf blew a little on his light, expanding it to cast upon the pillars and walls around them. The light crept upwards but the ceilings were so cavernous that it hardly reached them, ornate carvings covering the city of pillars that rose about them.

“Behold. The great Dwarf city and realm of Dwarrowdelf.” He said. Gazing upon this, Miriel suddenly realized that she knew how Baerandwen felt; she merely held it back out of fear of not being accepted. A swell of pride rose in her heart, of wonder. Baerandwen sought Miriel’s hand and squeezed it when she found it, enraptured at the grandness that surrounded them.

“Now there’s an eye opener and no mistake.” Said Sam. Miriel thought that about covered it. The hall was greater than Gandalf’s light could show, stretching out far into the darkness- but after walking for some time there was a light that they could see- perhaps sunlight streaming in through the mountain. Gimli jogged for it. Gandalf tried to stop him but he had discovered the final hold of the dwarves of Moria. A tomb rested in the middle of the room and he stopped when he read the inscription, gasping as if he’d been struck with a hefty blow to the ribs. They must have been close to the exit, for sunlight streamed in through a slit high in the wall, illuminating the scene. Gandalf was close behind, reading it aloud for those many of the company who couldn’t read khuldzu.

“Here lies Balin, son of Fundin...Lord of Moria.” He said. It had occurred to Miriel that Balin had died with the rest, but knowing for sure struck her heart. “He is dead then. It is as I feared.” Gandalf said. Gimli wept unabashedly and she rested a hand upon his shoulder, holding back tears herself. She wondered if Siladhriel would weep if she knew her companion no longer lived. Legolas shifted uneasily.

“We should go. It is not wise to linger.” He said. Gandalf had removed a book from a body that sat propped upright against the tomb. He opened it and began to read the account of the battle. With every word a fire lit inside Baerandwen’s chest, burning away the numbness in her heart.

“They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long.” He said, “The ground shakes. Drums. Drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark.” The twins exchanged glances, furious tears now dripping silently down Baerandwen’s twisted face. “We cannot get out. They are coming.”

There was a crash and the whole company started- not only that, but a clatter of chains and stone and armor as the body that had been balanced on the edge of a well fell into its depths. It hit apparently every wall and outcropping it passed, finally reaching the bottom and throwing them into a deafening silence. They collectively held their breath, listening. Gandalf snatched his hat back from Pippin, who had knocked the body down.

“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” He hissed. Pippin cringed a little, knowing his mistake all too well. It was then that they heard the drums. Drums in the deep. The air went out of the chamber as everyone turned to look. A far off war cry echoed through the hall outside. Boromir rushed to the door, getting there just as an arrow thudded into the wood beside his head. He slammed the doors shut, pushing them closed with his back.

“They have a cave troll.” He said, seemingly exasperated. Backing away from the door, Miriel tried to think of a spell that could help, settling on one and raising her hands to enact it the moment she saw the enemy. Aragorn acted quickly, herding the hobbits behind him and further into the room before joining Boromir to bar the door with axes.

“Get back! Stay close to Gandalf!” He shouted. Blades were drawn and Gimli leaped up onto the tomb to gain height, snarling.

“Let them come!” he cried, “There is one dwarf in Moria who still draws breath!” Baerandwen fed off of Gimli’s rage, an ax in each hand and tensed for battle.

“ _Du bekar!_ ” She shouted, rallying them into a tighter ring around the hobbits, who had nervously drawn their swords and stood waiting in a defensive position. The doors rattled on their hinges, shrieks and cries of the enemy coming from the other side, splinters flying as they hacked at the door. A hole appeared and Legolas loosed an arrow into it, rewarded with an unearthly scream. This was not the first time the twins had faced orc-kind; once, when they were not yet grown Siladhriel had taken them into the wilderness to learn of the enemy. They had gathered from that experience what kind of evil they faced, but it was not with eagerness that Miriel met the enemy, her jaw set grimly. Baerandwen brandished her axes with a voracity that she did not share.

The door broke. They met the flood with arrows and blades, chaos erupting. Miriel stayed close as she could to the hobbits but that was hard when her target was moving- bladeless and fighting with her hands she had leaped upon the first attacker who had come and thrust her hand into its face- it yowled as its flesh began to burn, bubbling under her fingers. Blocking its sword arm with her free hand, she struck again, blasting it with a burst of white light so it went flying backwards with a cackling scream. Baerandwen slashed with her axes, teeth bared and black blood of the enemy spattering onto the ground. The cave troll came onto the scene with a roar and a shattering of stone from the entrance. It was so big that the fight almost stopped, the company stunned by this entrance. It struck with its club, scattering the hobbits. Miriel braced herself where she was, lifting both hands and raising her voice against it.

“ _Lacho calad! Drego morn_!”

She hadn’t braced herself firmly enough apparently because she and the troll both shot in opposite directions and hit opposite walls, the troll causing a good chunk of the wall to come down. Miriel gasped as the breath left her, but narrowly avoided hitting the same spot on her head. Distracted by its new position the troll shook its head as if dazed and went after Gimli who was now the closest. It struck with his club and Gimli leaped, narrowly avoiding being crushed- the tomb was broken open. Baerandwen shrieked at it, running and sliding between its legs, slashing at its ankles as she did so. It went down on one knee with a roar of pain. Legolas fired two arrows at once, burying them deep into its hide. He leaped upon its back, climbing quickly to its shoulders and firing an arrow into its skull, but it bounced off and he was knocked aside. It lunged forward with a rumble, striking with its club and narrowly avoiding the hobbits, who leaped in opposite directions to avoid it. Frodo got separated, hiding behind a column.

“Frodo!” Shouted Aragorn, punching a goblin in the face and stabbing another in the chest. Miriel was closest, grabbing Frodo and swinging him aside with a wince as rock shattered where he had been standing only a moment before. She shoved him ahead of her and to the next column as theirs exploded over their heads, stumbling and getting out of the way only just in time. Aragorn leaped in front of the troll with a spear, getting between it and them. He buried the spear’s head deep in its chest, teeth gritted as he twisted and shoved. It bellowed in pain, stumbling backwards and then lashing out and throwing Aragorn aside- his body hit the wall and he was still.

“Aragorn!” screamed Miriel. She ran for him but didn’t get there, tackled to the floor by a particularly rancorous goblin where she lay struggling with it. It had a knife but she had her hands, reaching up to its exposed throat and using her flat hands as a scissored guillotine to burn its head off. Sizzling black blood globbed down onto her face but she threw the now dead goblin off and began to scramble to her feet- the troll now had Frodo cornered- she reached out for him. “Frodo, no!”

It struck, driving the spear it had pulled from its own body into Frodo’s. Now it was just the troll and those of the company who were on their feet converged on it, hacking with blades and firing arrows. Merry drove his little sword into its back again and again, Legolas firing at its head until finally it swayed and then fell, launching Merry into the air and across the room. The room cleared, Aragorn and Miriel rushed to Frodo. _Not the ringbearer._

“I have him, get back.” she said, her hands hovering unsure about his body. “Frodo?” She asked, rolling his body face up. Much to her surprise, he gasped as if coming up for air. A wave of relief swept the chamber. They were all alive.

“I’m alright. I’m not hurt.” Said Frodo, rubbing his chest. Coming to stand beside them, Sam nearly sobbed in relief. Aragorn voiced the doubts that both he and Miriel were having.

“You should be dead. That spear would have skewered a wild boar.” He said. Miriel pulled his cloak and shirt aside to check the wound, but there was none- only a layer of shining white mail. Gimli spoke up, recognizing the make.

“Mithril. You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.” He said. They looked up as shrieks and cries of the enemy came faintly again through the door. The first wave had only been the scouts. More were coming. Gandalf looked wildly about the room and then gestured for them to follow at his heels, picking up his pace.

“To the Bridge of Khazad-dum.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations: 
> 
> Adad is the dwarvish word for father
> 
> “Du bekar!” is a dwarvish battle cry that translates to "to arms!" 
> 
> "Lacho calad! Drego morn!" is elvish for "Flame light! Flee darkness!"


	4. Gandalf's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Gandalf falls and a formless danger comes from the void

Gandalf was the last to take the bridge, their steps pursued by an enemy from their wildest nightmares; never had Miriel seen Gandalf frightened and it chilled her to the bone. It was not an easy crossing, much of the ancient rock crumbling under the weight of the footsteps of the enemy- it was a Balrog. The twins had read histories where this demon was mentioned and in all of them it was an impossible task to defeat. Safety was not within reach yet, but Miriel felt an absence from the group, turning on the far foot of the bridge and realizing that Gandalf was facing it. Staff upraised and voice strong he held the bridge with white light, his magic keeping the Balrog pacing outside the glow.

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” He howled, bringing his staff down in an explosion of light. The Balrog snarled, snapping its whip- it penetrated part way and then cracked down hard across the air above Gandalf. He was barely keeping it at bay.

“Gandalf, you cannot!” Screamed Miriel. She ran forward but Baerandwen caught her- the very rock that Gandalf stood upon was crumbling and the foe was beyond her, but she fought her sister, screaming for Gandalf to come back, to run with them, to please- _please_ -

She screamed again when he fell. Leaving Moria was a rush of noise and hurrying feet, a blur of tears and her throat growing hoarse with shouts of despair. Arrows flew, but the bridge was broken and none would pass that way again. As they broke into sunlight, Miriel collapsed to her knees. In the rush to push her ahead Baerandwen had handed her off to Boromir in the front- now Miriel wept openly and clung to his arms around her. It didn’t matter to her, only that Gandalf was gone. Around her the hobbits were as broken as she, holding each other and rocking, bitter tears washing tracks down their dirty faces. Crouching for a moment on the bare face of rock, Baerandwen wept for Gandalf and for the dwarves of Moria who had not made it out as they did. Aragorn finished cleaning the black blood from his sword, sheathing it grimly.

“Legolas, get them up.” He said. Boromir, who’s own eye was not untouched by tears, protested.

“Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!” He said. Aragorn shook his head.

“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orc. We must move on.” He said.

They must. Miriel had stopped screaming; now only a small whistle came from her throat with each exhale. She allowed Boromir to help her to her feet.

______________________________________

Siladhriel had stayed behind in Rivendale. She was welcome in the house of Elrond and she felt more like fretting than she did traveling back across the mountains to Lothlorien. If only Gandalf had not departed...but she preferred him with her daughters. She was used to his wandering and infrequent visits, and knew that she would rather have them in his hands. They were safest, of course, with her, but she had done her adventuring long before and was no longer whole from it. Of course, she privately questioned if she had ever been whole in the first place; created from magic and torn apart by magic, a pretty mask hiding something larger and shadowy. These thoughts had plagued her for eighty years, and as the world outside the elven havens crumbled, so they grew darker. And now that her children were taken from her breast for the first time, she was failing. She spoke little and ate less, leaving her room only to walk silently among the trees and by the edge of the water. Ever since the ring had come and left from Rivendale, she had been afflicted with dreams of it and of this...Melkor. She had poured over book after book, reading through the libraries without sleep.

Elrond had the knowledge that she sought. She knew some of the story, but now she closely inspected the history of the ring and anything she could find about Morgoth. What she found did not surprise her, nor was it the kind of reading she enjoyed. The deeper she went, the more she wished she didn’t know. She was aware that there were evils in middle earth, but there were blacker things than orcs and dragons, and she examined each one by the daylight in her books and by night in her dreams.

________________________________

_Out of the darkness twisted voices whispering, whispering. Words soft and sibilant, sliding across each other like snakes, spiked with menace. It was out of this limitless darkness that the titan appeared. He was swathed in black, hair long and hanging, face obscured by blackened bandages. Towering and crowned, head bowed, he dragged himself with a limp, his steps making the ground rumble like those of colossus. The very air seemed to shudder and it was then that Siladhriel knew that this apparition was from through the door of the night and the walls of the world. It was a creature from the void, gazing into her. She gazed back and recognized it from somewhere deep inside her. It was the remnants of the dragon that recognized him, but remembering her abandonment even the dragon did not wish to see her creator._

_“Corrupter! She cried, throwing out her hands, “I cast you from my sight!” Nothing happened. Head lifting, he laughed. His voice was like a man speaking through a mouth and throat of broken glass._

_“I cannot further corrupt what was already made corrupted.” He said, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “Nor have you the strength to cast your creator anywhere.” Fear trickled cold in her veins. She stepped back, hands still upraised. He grabbed her wrist, looming closer and she felt that if she did not wake she would perish. Suddenly there came a light to her eyes and she remembered her fairer portion, knowing that he may be greater than her, but he was also a banished form._

_“You forget. Stars are not afraid of the dark, and you have no power in this realm.” She grated. Wrenching her hand out of his grip, his hand came off at the wrist like the charcoal at the bottom of a fire. She watched as he crumbled into dust, outreached hand first, mouth open in a sibilant hiss of dismay._

She woke and was in the house of Elrond, where no evils dwelt. Melkor might be able to reach into the dreams of what he had made, but he had found from the very beginning that he could not control her. She sat up in bed, pulling her knees close. There was nothing more that he could do to her, but what of the girls? They shared her blood, but did they share the same connection to evil, that same misfortune? Could Melkor’s servant, Mairon, touch the girls through the ring they traveled with because of it?

Were they walking into his clutches?


	5. The Breaking of the Fellowship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: The fellowship enters Lorien; Miriel is still inexperienced with her magic and things go awry

They crossed the Dimril Dale and into the lands of Miriel’s youth. Knowing she was close to her home carried her heavy heart a little, but there was nothing that could heal the loss of Gandalf. Beside her, Baerandwen’s heart was also heavy, though she mourned the loss of Moria as well. Though they drew close to familiar territory for the twins, a few of the fellowship did not like their proximity to the golden forest. As they crossed the borders, Gimli stalked through the trees with ax upraised, speaking to the hobbits.

“Stay close young hobbits! They say there’s a great sorceress lives in these woods, an elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her, fall under her spell...” He said, trailing off for a moment. Beside Baerandwen, Frodo had jumped, clutching at his chest as if taken by surprise. She put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a strange look, but he did not respond aloud. “...and are never seen again.” Gimli finished. Miriel smiled, exchanging looks with her sister. What elf witch could that be? They found Lady Galadriel kind and gentle; their mother they thought more terrifying. In the background, Gimli continued, scoffing through his beard. “Well, here is one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!” As far as that might have been true, Miriel’s nose was the first to sense the approach, the whole company halting as they were suddenly surrounded by grey clad elves. A silver haired elf named Haldir stepped foward.

“The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark.”

He was a sight for Miriel’s sore eyes, who rushed forward to embrace him, taking him by the lower arms in a gesture of gladness. She wished for nothing more than to sink into his arms and cry over Gandalf, but she could not. No matter her feelings for him, this greeting was as far as their affection could run. 

“Haldir.” She said. “We are being pursued, we need the protection of the borders.” He murmured a greeting in elvish and then looked above her and to the company

  
“Come with me. The lady of the wood much desires to speak with you.”

The company filtered through the trees, Miriel and Haldir leading the way into the city. Gimli uttered a growl at an elf who prodded him along with the tip of their bow- Baerandwen got between them before a fight could break out, holding out a hand to ward him off.

The lord and lady of the wood came from the heights to greet them, two glowing figures hand in hand, silver and golden haired, fair as the ancient woods and taller still than any of the fellowship. Seeing her mentor again, Miriel wished to rush forward but instead merely began to silently weep where she stood. She wanted to seek comfort in her teacher and guide, wiping her tears and hearing Galadriel’s voice inside her head.

_“Do not be troubled, little one. You are in lands of safety and rest.”_

_“Lady....I weep because Gandalf has fallen...”_

“....He has fallen into shadow.” Lady Galadriel finished aloud. Celeborn looked around to her, not realizing that she had garnered this information from Miriel as he spoke with Aragorn on the same subject. She looked at them each in turn and saw their hearts, speaking words of warning and words of comfort in the same breath.

“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you will sleep in peace.”

_________________________________

Baerandwen was home and she wanted to mourn with her sister, but Haldir had Miriel’s ear and she knew that she was loathe to leave it. As the fellowship took their rest, Miriel gathered what news she could.

“Has my mother returned?” She asked. Haldir shook his head. She admired him so, it almost ached.

“As far as we have heard, Lady Siladhriel remained in Rivendale.” He replied. Miriel thought on this for a moment. She knew that traveling was always hard for her mother, and she knew that she had only gone to Rivendale at the bequest of Galadriel. Rivendale was a place of peace as much as Lorien, perhaps she was taking her rest until the resolution of this quest and the return of her daughters.

It was not her job to bring food to the company, nor cook, but when she returned Miriel noticed that Boromir had not taken food nor rest; he seemed to be restive, unable to sleep or eat. He sat on the outskirts of the company, his elbow resting on his knee and his hand on his forehead. None of them were doing very well at the moment, but he seemed the closest to falling apart. She approached on silent feet, reaching out and touching his shoulder- he jumped and when he saw her he recoiled from her as if she burned, sweating.

“Leave me be, witch!”

Miriel stared at him, hand still outstretched. Until this point he had never had a cross word for her and she was surprised that it hurt.

“Very well.” She said, injured.

“Wait. I’m sorry.” He said. She halted. He was shaking and the look in his eyes was somewhat crazed. “I can hear her, in my head.” He said. “She spoke of the fall of Gondor....and the death of my father.”

Oh. Very carefully, she chose her words, kneeling beside him and putting her hand on his shoulder. He flinched but did not shake her off.

“I do not have the gift of sight, but I know that my Lady Galadriel sometimes may speak of things to be, or that may be, or may not be at all.” She said  
  
“She said to me even now there is hope left. But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope.” He said, his voice almost a fearful whisper. “My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our…our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.” He sighed. Considering a moment, she reached up and brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead with her thumb, placing a kiss there instead. Into her words she put her magic, her touch calming.  
  
“Do not take too much stock in dreams unless they be easy ones, Boromir, son of Denethor.”

____________________________________

They left the borders by way of the river the next day. It was the same river the twins had once traveled as children, but they were going the opposite way this time, heading south with the current. They followed the river for two days, reaching the Argonath quicker than they could have on foot. They expected to be pursued once they were out of the borders of Lorien, so they had not stopped until now. It had been two days without a sign of the enemy and they must rest. Settling on the West bank, they made camp, breaking their fast with the lembas bread that the elves had given them. The twins volunteered to gather wood for a fire, leaving the camp and wandering into the woods together. They had not had a moment alone together in months, but they did not need to talk, instead soaking up the blessed silence as they gathered armfuls of branches. When they did communicate, it was with glances. Baerandwen’s face twisted a little. Miriel dropped her branches before it turned into tears, Baerandwen dropping hers as well and accepting her sister’s embrace.

“I keep thinking that Amme will be so grieved, but who can tell her? It is our burden to bear.” Baerandwen said through her tears.

“A burden we must bear no matter the strength of our hearts. He was the bravest of us...Do not be troubled by that.” Said Miriel, stroking her sister’s hair. In truth, she could not stop imagining Gandalf’s body at the bottom of the chasm and for a moment gave in to tears herself. Between them tears fell thick and fast, though silently. Suddenly came the far off bay of a hunting horn. Only one of their company was bold enough to carry a horn.

“Boromir!” Exclaimed Baerandwen. They took but a moment to locate the noise, Baerandwen wiping her eyes hastily and drawing her axes as they sprang forward, forgetting even grief. As they raced the horn wailed its alarm, turning into the noise of steel against steel. The stink of Urukhai grew heavy in the air, the scent of blood close behind. Boromir and Merry and Pipping were cornered on a cliff that overlooked the river; they engaged the Urukhai as they came, even Merry and Pipping fighting fiercely with their little blades- but they were sore outnumbered.

They were much bigger than goblins and Miriel could not take them with her hands so she grabbed the orc sword of a fallen urukhai and went into battle swinging it high as she would an elvish blade, shouting a battle cry with her sister as the black steel flashed in the afternoon light.

 _“Baruk Khazâd!”_ They yelled together as they fell upon the Uruk, taking heads with them. But it was too late; Boromir had taken arrows to the chest and the hobbits had been swept away; kidnapped by rough hands. Miriel struggled towards them, hacking through the sweeping mass of Urukhai and shouting their names.

“Merry, Pippin!” She cried. They were being borne farther and farther away; Baerandwen was on the hunt, swift after them and picking off retreating Uruk as she went. A rearguard stopped to engage her head on, making her progress slow. In the distance she could hear shouts from human and elvish voices. Soon Aragorn and the rest would be here, but until then it was only them.

“Help Boromir, I’ll go after them!” Shouted Baerandwen, but Miriel feared it was too late. Miraculously he was still fighting- but steadily fading. He was up against the crumbling cliff edge with arrow after arrow sticking from his chest and still he struck again and again at his attackers, outnumbered but slaying his foes one by one. Miriel came in from behind like an avenging force, beheading one with her borrowed sword and blasting another off its feet and into a tree with a burst of white light. Boromir sliced the throat of one that came to close with his dagger, stabbing another with his sword, but his strength was sorely failing. Panting and with blood running from the corner of his mouth he went down on one knee, swaying as he nearly lost his balance at the edge. Miriel struck at the Uruk’s back and it was ready for her, parrying her blade.

Boromir’s injuries were grievous but she would not allow a member of her company to die by orc scum; nor his body to be defiled by their hands. Using all of her strength, she pressed back and the blades shrieked together. A little more of the cliff edge crumbled. Boromir was on his hands and knees now, clutching with one hand at the arrow in his left lung. Miriel’s normally calm face was broken into a snarl, black Uruk blood splattered across her forehead and cheek.

“You will not have him!” She cried, and pushed with her magic. Two things happened at once. The flesh seemed to melt from the Uruk’s bones, blasting it backwards, and the cliff finally gave way, sending both Boromir and Miriel tumbling into the river below.

______________________________

At last they had slain the remaining Urukhai, but there was still a troupe that had escaped with the hobbits in tow. It should have been calm as they cleaned their blades and stowed them, but there was a sense of unease upon the air. They must pursue the Uruk who had gotten ahead, but Frodo and Sam were missing and Miriel was still with Boromir- or likely, his body. Stowing her axes, Baerandwen let out a sigh, her breath shaky on the chill air. They had slain many of the enemy but their losses too had been great...this was no victory. They first sought to recover and honor Boromir’s body, but when they reached the spot where she had left them, they found neither Miriel nor Boromir. Baerandwen leaped upon an outcropping of rock overlooking the river, calling for her in elvish. She could feel that something was terribly wrong. There were slain Uruk all about, but no men or elvish bodies.

“Miriel! _Onórë_!” She called. When she discovered that the cliff bank of the river had been freshly crumbled away, she halted, looking over the river. Boromir had been up against this cliff edge when she had left to pursue the hobbits. Heart beating high in her throat, she murmured to herself a question that she did not want to admit she knew the answer to. “Where is my sister?”


	6. Calling Down the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Boromir lives, with creeping consequences

Coughing, Miriel clung to Boromir’s body floating on the current; the river had turned quickly into rapids past their campsite and she fought them now. Luck was on their side for as the current pushed them downriver, it also pushed them towards the opposite bank. Using all of her strength to pull him through the shallows, she collapsed beside him to retch up riverwater. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she grabbed him again, getting him further up the bank and out of the water.

He was still breathing. Kneeling beside his body, she pleaded with forces that were beyond her, hurried elvish rolling from her tongue, that she might save this man from Gondor who would give his life for good. She knew that if she took out the arrows, he might bleed to death.  Her mother’s vial rested in her pouch still but she couldn’t begin to heal him unless she knew the projectiles would not push any further into his heart and lungs. Ripping his knife from the sheath on his leg, she unsheathed it quickly and slit his outer tunic from bottom to top. He was wearing mail and she wanted to tear at it with her hands but couldn’t, instead working quickly and snapping off the arrows shorter. He groaned with each one as they were disturbed and more elvish poured from her mouth to ease his pain. Finally she could slip the shirt of mail over his head, wincing at the gushes of blood from his wounds as she moved him. When he rested again, his face was a greyish oatmeal color and she could tell that he was slipping. She bent her head against his, feeling the cold sweat on his brow as their foreheads met.

_Cen- i kal ar túl at- ana me. Lar- me ar eless-_

Miriel gathered her strength and channeled it through the fingertips resting lightly on his chest. He did not stir. She pushed.

_I call upon the light of the beloved stars, I call upon every power I possess so he might see through the veil and come back-_

Slowly, she poured her energy into him, the tips of her fingers slowly going numb as it left them. Never had a healing demanded so much of her and never had she given it so willingly. She pushed until her head hurt and he gasped- relief flooded her, making her limbs weak. But she was also spending life force at a breakneck pace and knew that now that he wasn’t on the brink of death, she knew that she must remove the arrows lest they make the wounds fester. But her head was so hazy. So hazy. She clutched at the knife, concentrating hard and using it to pry the first arrow from his chest. He screamed and it gushed but when she reached in, she came out with bloodied fingers and her prize- a savagely barbed arrowhead. She threw it aside, cupping his face with her reddened hand and chanting to ease his pain. Again, she dug into his chest, removing another and another amidst his cries of pain. Was she killing him again? His screams were nearly unbearable. She didn’t know half the words she was saying but she knew they would save him and so she pressed forward and continued with a thick tongue. He grabbed weakly at her wrist but she wrenched away and went for the next arrowhead. She had to. Darkness was beginning to creep into the edges of her vision but the bleeding had not stopped.

_Survive. Survive._

She fumbled with bloody hands at the pouch at her waist, pulling out the vial that her mother had given her and ripping out the stopper with her teeth. Hands shaking, she poured a few drops on each wound; as she did, they hissed venomously. Pressing her hands into his chest with a sickening squish, she raised her voice, calling for aid. They glowed in the early evening like a supernova, brighter and brighter, the gushes slowing and finally ceasing as she poured herself into him.

_____________________________________

Aragorn knew more of where Frodo had gone than he said at first but it soon came out that he and Sam had taken the road again.

Baerandwen had unsheathed her axes again and was playing with them restlessly, flipping them through her fingers, back and forth. The fellowship was broken and her sister was missing. There was no force in Middle-earth that could keep them apart, neither time nor distance, but if she was truly dead… “ _I would know_ ,” she thought. Wouldn’t she? They had spent their summers as girls swimming in a tributary of this very river; Miriel _could_ swim.

Then there was the problem of Merry and Pippin. They had been bound as they were taken so they were most likely still alive though in the clutches of the most foul enemy. Regardless of whether Miriel was alive or not, those who remained of the fellowship could not abandon Merry and Pippin to torture and death. It had been decided by a vote which direction to go; Baerandwen had hesitated a good long moment but in the end she had made it unanimous. They were to pursue the remaining Urukhai and rescue the Hobbits. As their swift footsteps carried them away from the cliffside, Baerandwen holstered her axes with numb hands, looking towards the river.

_Hold on to me. I will find you._

She turned away, fast footsteps following Aragorn.

_And if I cannot find you I will avenge you._

_________________________________

Boromir had found himself nearly at the very halls of Mandos, the light all but gone from his eyes when he awakened again. All was pain and searing heat, a white hot light surrounding him and Miriel like a thousand flames. His chest burned in a half dozen places, growing hot with the application of the liquid from her vial. Living had never been so agonizing. He could hardly process stimuli other than the pain, but as he healed, Miriel’s voice broke through and he realized that she was alive and with him, trying to pull him back from death.

“I call upon my mother’s star, Silhadriel! Hear me!” came her voice, and he gasped, arching upwards into her hands. Suddenly his chest felt clear and white hot, burning- burning. His flesh sizzled, blood steaming under her hands.

Then he knew no more. When he went limp, she panicked. Thinking that she had lost him, she checked his heartbeat and found it strong. Her fingers, however, had a hard time feeling it past their own numbness. They were cold and he was feverish, but the color had come back into his face. Miriel could just barely tell through blurred vision. She swayed where she sat, hands pressed still into his chest and head bowing. She had borrowed a great deal of her own strength and now that he seemed to be out of danger she rested, slumping to the side. They were out in the open, collapsed upon the bank for any enemy to find, yet neither no longer had the ability to move. Night closed in around them.

_________________________________

Morning:

Baerandwen had not slept. Had not mourned. None of them had. There was no time. The terrain had changed. Trees gave way to rocky hills. They ran, following Merry and Pippin’s trail. As morning came over the next ridge, Legolas mounted it first.

“Legolas! What do your elf eyes see?” Aragorn shouted. Baerandwen mounted the ridge ahead of him and Gimli, joining Legolas with fresh vigor in her heart at his words.

“The Uruks turn northeast! They run as if the very whips of their masters were behind them!” He called back for Aragorn and Gimli. Baerandwen now ran with an axe in each hand, preparing should they get within striking distance. And soon they would. The rage in her heart demanded blood. It demanded Uruk-hai heads. It demanded revenge of the most terrible kind and she would have it.

They ran on, steps swift and precise.

________________________________

When Boromir awoke, it was to a cold winter morning though his chest was oddly warm. At first, he hardly remembered getting there and certainly not why Miriel was lying curled half on his chest, half on the dry bank of the river. As he shifted, however, he grasped his chest. It was tender, sore as if he had been opened up and scooped out. The previous evening began to come back in bits and pieces.

“Miriel?” He asked. She had made a small noise as he had stirred her and now she opened her eyes. Their normally bright green looked hazy, almost gray. Exhausted to the bone, she felt dry and as if she had a mouth full of gravel. It was her teeth. Her teeth felt odd, as if she were wearing a double set. Running her tongue over them she discovered that they were sharper than she remembered. She closed her mouth firmly. It was unnecessary to reveal this oddity, especially when she didn’t know what it was. They were alive. Both of them, somehow. She felt quite weak and assumed that Boromir would be the same. Indeed, he groaned as he stirred, feeling his ribs and finding raised scars under the dried blood. As he sat up Miriel came with him and she gasped and clutched at her own chest, feeling as if she’d been stabbed in half a dozen places. After a moment of breathing it faded but he had gripped her by the shoulders in concern.

“Are you alright? Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

As they stood, Miriel noticed that the bank and forest surrounding them were touched by frost- all except a small circle around where they had lay. It was no miracle that he hadn’t frozen to the ground, wet and exposed as they had both been, as Miriel ran warmer than any elf. But to this extreme was unusual.

They had to face what had happened all at once, Boromir in his shredded tunic and both of them having only what supplies that had been literally strapped to their bodies. No more than a few pouches of goods, still damp from the river. They had no weapon between the two of them, except for a small knife that Boromir kept strapped to his leg. His sword had been lost to the waters of the Nimrodel and this he grieved. Miriel’s legs felt as if they were going to give out. Holding onto Boromir on the way down, she sat back in the grass again. “Perhaps not.” She amended. He looked around for a moment and then sat with her, looking at the state of himself and sighing. Miriel spoke first. “My sister can’t be dead.” She said. “She is too keen with an axe.” Bormir considered for another moment, careful with his words.

“It is no question of that,” he said. “But what of Frodo?” His voice was fretful. “What of the ring?”

“Do we assume that it’s in the hands of the enemy?”

“That, or wander the wilds looking for it. When you are well enough to travel, we must go to my city. My father, Lord Denethor, must be warned. He is wise and he will give us guidance in this time.”

Miriel considered for a moment and then nodded. Unless they wanted to roam the wilderness looking for survivors that they may not find, it seemed the only approach left. To go and warn the men of Gondor of the oncoming wave. Doubtless now there would be war, especially if the enemy had hands on the ring. Regardless, if Frodo at least had escaped the enemy knew of his possession of the ring and the black gates would open to release foul things upon Middle Earth in order to regain it.

“Very well. We will go. But we must not wait, I will be strong enough to travel by morning.”

He gazed at her for a moment, evaluating and she knew he saw himself the leader of this new company of two; he had recovered his captaincy but to her surprise he did not insist, nodding and deferring to her. He rubbed the arm that was not facing Miriel and getting her heat. It was still winter and he had lost his furs.

“What of today? I don’t like this, we’re too exposed. To the weather and to eyes perhaps unseen.” He said. She thought little of her question.

“Can you carry me?” She asked. He stood, offering his hands to her. She took them and as he lifted her to her feet her chest seemed to squeeze into itself in pain, but it faded into a dull ache as he put an arm under her legs and her feet left the grassy bank. He was a broad man and though she was as tall as a woman of his kind, she was small in his arms.

“At least you’re warm.” He said, a laugh in his voice. She leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder, closing her eyes. There could very well be danger nearby and she needed as much rest as possible to recover her health and with it her power. He was right, there could be eyes unseen, but she had a feeling that if they were in danger they would be in danger all at once and she wanted to be ready for it.

___________________________________

Boromir had doubled back twice to make sure they hadn’t been followed. Exhausted from her efforts last night, Miriel had thought nothing of falling asleep in his arms. He had glanced down at her a few times as she slept. This slip of a maiden who had brought him back from the brink of death; and what she had given him she now sorely needed herself. He marveled at what he had once feared. Still, he feared it, but now felt an appropriate amount of awe at her inherent magic. Though now she was weak. His chest was sore, but he clutched her to him to keep her safe- this last companion. His failure to rescue Merry and Pippin weighed heavy upon his heart, but another secret worry weighed upon him even more. He would not tell her that he had tried to take the ring from Frodo. It would be his secret shame, an act that he had regretted even in the moment that it had happened.

Finally stopping at a suitable place where the pines had laid down a thick carpet of needles, he laid Miriel down and she did not stir. Concerned for a moment, he bent and put his hand under her nose, feeling for breath. She sighed and he was comforted. Taking his knife, he began gathering low hanging branches, lashing them together with their own flexible branches and making a roof over Miriel’s sleeping form. When he was done, he rested beside her, lying there and gazing up at the ceiling of green. For a moment he plucked at his torn shirt, considering it soberly until he felt eyes on him. Looking over at Miriel his pulse quickened for a moment- her pupils looked like slits. Then she blinked and the light changed and they were her normal green eyes, if hazy. She was lying on her side, grimed hands folded under her pale cheek, nothing more than a woman. Wasn’t she?

____________________________

Miriel had woken as Boromir constructed the roof over her head, shielding her slowly from the elements as he went. As he was distracted she slid a hand under the neck of her shirt, feeling her chest where it hurt and finding raised bumps there. She pondered them for a moment, a dawning realization coming upon her that they were scars. As he seemed to put the finishing touches on their shelter, she slid her hands away again and under her cheek. Truly, she was exhausted still. Boromir came under the shelter and stretched himself out to rest a moment after his labors, plucking a moment at his ripped tunic before looking over to check on her. She saw him jump minutely. Her voice was husky and her throat dry. She swallowed and tried again.

“I can repair that for you if you can light us a fire.” She said, her voice low. If she continued to burn as hot as the night before, they didn’t need the fire for anything but light. But it might throw him off the trail. She had a faint idea what was happening to her, but she did not want to speak of her darker blood. It was the star that had saved him, but without its power she was still part beast and this man, as noble as he might be, would not understand.

Normally she could see quite well in the dim, but bent now over his tunic with needle and thread, she hardly had to bend to see the tiny stitches even by the firelight. In fact, she could see quite well by the light of the fire, even into the shadows outside it. Now awake, she was hungry; she could smell the blood on her hands and the tunic and still on boromir and it stirred her deep in the pit of her stomach. She dismissed it.

_You desire a rabbit, that is all._

Still she could not help but glance at the greatest source of the blood, Boromir. He was grimy with it, his chest covered. He stank of it and sweat. For a moment she imagined putting her hands on his chest and licking the blood from his skin, tongue caressing the scars that they now both shared-

“Ow!” She exclaimed, yanking the needle away from the finger she had just pricked. Awakened from fantasy, she blushed like fire, realizing what she’d been thinking. She didn’t think of Boromir like that. She hadn’t even thought of Haldir in that manner. The difference between them could not be more wide- Whereas Haldir was steady and lithe, Boromir was broad and yet graceful. But compared to Haldir Boromir was...rough. She put the injured finger in her mouth, tasting her own blood mingling with his and feeling a clench in her stomach.

She tried grounding herself, but she thought of Baerandwen and it did not bring her joy as if usually did. She had naively volunteered for this journey not truly knowing the road ahead, only knowing that her sister would not go alone, and now they were separated. She had never spent more than a day apart from her twin and now she had no way of knowing if she had even survived the Urukhai attack. There was no way of knowing if any of the fellowship had survived, but she told herself that Baerandwen was a capable warrior.

_So is Boromir. Their numbers were great._

A nasty voice that she had never heard before had spoken up. The voice of doubt and fear. Another, also doubtful voice countered it, bringing her a spark of hope.

_But I would know. Somehow, I would know._

She gazed up through the canopy above them, searching for stars and taking comfort in knowing that they were there. Through strife and blood, they would always be there, warm and welcoming, part of her heart. But she was not all starlight; she was also made of the fire of a forge and the iron of a hammer. Of course she felt her mother’s shadow, but also took comfort in the thought of what she was made of. Reaching into a pocket of her trousers, she pulled out a small copper coin. When she was a child, her mother had compared her to a coin such as this, this trinket that had been given to her by a king.

“Do you know why I carry this dwarvish coin wherever I go?” She asked Boromir. He looked at her, not knowing why she might.

“No. Why do you?” He asked.

“My father was dwarvish. One of the last of his line. I carry it with me to remind me of him, and of my sister.” She said. The bewilderment on his face was palpable.

“A dwarf. You jest.” He said, a crooked smile breaking his face. It would have enraged Baerandwen, but Miriel only felt a slight pang for a home that she had seen only once- that city under the mountain.

“I don’t.” She said. “He was...” Staring into the fire, she searched for words, remembering what stories her mother had told her when she was a child and avoiding the whole truth. “She had us after he died, so I never knew him, but she said he was braver than anyone she had ever met...” Miriel looked at Boromir again. “I hope that someday I could be as great as he was.” To her surprise, he reached and took her hand that was not preoccupied with needle.

“You saved my life. You are already august in my eyes.” He said, his eyes warm. His hand was large and calloused, but he held her more delicate hand gently, carefully. The fire crackled and they gazed at each other in its light; Miriel broke first, looking down and away as her stomach fluttered.


	7. Budding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Hopelessness and anger, a budding romance, Siladhriel finds out about Gandalf

Aragorn noticed it first; the thrumming of earth beneath his feet. He slowed and his companions matched his pace, but Baerandwen caught up with him. They consulted together as Legolas appeared at their side and Gimli came huffing and puffing up behind them.

“A red sun rises, blood has been spilled this night.” Said Legolas.

“Something’s coming.” Said Aragorn.

“Horsemen.” Baerandwen confirmed. “I can smell the sweat of their beasts, they’ve been worked into a lather.”

What were they coming for, and why would they be so far from Edoras, so fast? Baerandwen knew her maps. This was King Théoden’s land and it would be his people that they might meet. It wasn’t long before they saw them in the distance, riding fast. Aragorn called out to them, his voice echoing across the plain.

“Riders of Rohan! What news from the mark?

Soon the thunder of flying hooves was all about them- they did not flee and were surrounded, riders on every side circling, circling. Gimli raised his ax with a growl, Aragorn’s hand going to his sword. Baerandwen and Legolas did not yet draw their weapons, but circled inside their space warily, back to back with the others. Riders bristling with long spears and helmeted in gold, this had every appearance of a war party. They pointed their spears at the four- it seemed a veritable forest of spears, barring their exit. The leader of the party dismounted, speaking with a clear and ringing voice.

“What business have elves, a dwarf, and a man have in the riddermark? Speak quickly!”

Baerandwen’s temper flared at being called an elf, her hands now gripping the weapons they rested on. If it came to a fight they were outnumbered and held the low ground, but the people of Rohan had always been peaceful neighbors to Lorien. Now they were suspicious and surly, for what reason she did not know. Gimli spoke first.

“Give me your name, horse master, and I shall give you mine.” He said, gruffly. The horseman stepped closer, speaking just as gruffly.

“I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

Both Baerandwen and Legolas leapt for their weapons, but Legolas got between them first, fitting an arrow to his bow in the space of a breath, aiming it at the horseman’s face.

“You would die before your stroke fell!” he exclaimed. The spears pushed closer to them, Baerandwen snarled as one scratched her arm, starting to push her way past the spearpoint and towards the threatening horseman. Aragorn took charge to diffuse the situation before the more hot headed of his companions landed them in deeper trouble, arms outstretched to prevent attack from either side.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, this is Gimli son of Gloin, Baerandwen, daughter of Siladhriel, and Legolas of the woodland realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden your King.”

The leader of the riders considered for a moment, his bright eyes fixed on Aragorn as if reading what he could from this man’s ragged travel clothes and polished ring upon his finger. After a long moment, he removed his helmet, golden hair streaming free. His face and voice were grim.

“Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe. Not even his own kin.” He said. At this signal from their leader the riders raised their spears. “Saruman has poisoned the mind of the King and claimed lordship over his lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan, and for that we are banished.”” He looked at each of them in turn, taking in their faces and intentions with suspicion. “The white wizard is cunning.” He said. “He walks here and there they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked, and everywhere his spies slip past our nets.” He paused at Baerandwen, noticing the slightly rounded point of her ears and his eyes narrowing at this, being not quite right. Aragorn distracted him.

“We are no spies. We track a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive.” He said.

The Uruks are destroyed, we slaughtered them during the night.” The horseman said. “We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them.” Suddenly Baerandwen’s fingers were numb. In the dark there was no telling friend from foe, much less two hobbits that the riders hadn’t even known to look for. They had run all this way for nothing.

“Dead?” Gimli asked. It fell from his mouth like a stone. The rider seemed sympathetic, but there was nothing that sympathy could do for them.

“I am sorry.” A rider came forward with the reigns of his horse and he took them, mounting it and looking down to them. “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It is forsaken in these

lands.” He spoke now to his riders, a command. “We ride north!”

Denial kept them going; the riders continued on their way and the company of four followed their wide trail back. It wasn’t long before Baerandwen could smell the bonfire in the distance, the stink of corpses. When they came upon it, however, it was worse than she could have imagined. The pile of bodies was vast. A single uruk head was mounted on a spear, its face pinned in a grotesque snarl. It served as a warning. As the rider had said, truly there was nothing living here.

Aragorn screamed, releasing his frustration and pain. Behind him, Baerandwen stood trembling in every limb, suddenly feeling as if her bones were jelly. She would find no closure here, her revenge was taken from her. She wanted to throw her blades into the head atop the spear nearby, she wanted to scream like Aragorn and fall down upon the ground and beat the earth, but she could not, standing there and shaking from head to toe with fury. Tears of rage hammered at the gates wanting to be let out, but somehow her eyes could not produce them. Instead she simply trembled, broken for all the world to see.

She had been denied in the worst possible way, and for that she almost hated the riders who had robbed her of her revenge. She wondered if Merry and Pippin had been afraid, but she was awakened from her reverie by Aragorn’s shout. He was on one knee in the grass where the forest met the plains, moving forward and inspecting the ground. It took her a moment but hope bloomed, small and pale in her heart. Aragorn was the best tracker in their company; if he saw something they could not, it could mean the hobbits had made it out of the mele. She rushed after him as he got to his feet, the whole company heading into the shelter of the trees.

__________________________________________

The woods had given way to high, flat plains. If Miriel was right they had passed Fangorn and were in Rohan, though they encountered none of the peoples of that land. Winter had yet to pass into spring, freezing rain sweeping relentlessly and without mercy. They had come across a tributary of the Celebrant and for this reason they were hesitant to cross; but according to Boromir there was no other ford for at least three days hike. If they were to go any further they had to cross here and now. Bundling what little they had above their heads in small bundles, they forded it with some difficulty.

Miriel could walk through the weather in her elvish clothes even wet; Boromir, likewise was strong and his furs were thick, but after crossing they were both soaked to the bone and Boromir was freezing. They sought shelter and found it in the form of a cave inside an outcropping of craggy rock. Boromir, with his broad shoulders, could barely fit into the entrance, but it was large on the inside and there was a charred dip in the floor that told them it had once been occupied. An exploration of it, however, told them that it did not go far back and was no longer someone’s hiding place. The rain steamed from Miriel’s hair, but Boromir was as bedraggled and wet as a drowned rat. Wood was hard to come by on the plains, but Miriel knew that chunks of the peaty ground itself could be used as fuel

She dug chunks of the thickly carpeted, rooty earth up with Boromir’s knife and brought them into the cave, putting hands to it and using a trick Siladhriel had taught her to steam it dry. It devoured some of her precious energy, but afterwards it lit easily and soon they had a roaring fire. Boromir took off his tunic and mail to lay the tunic flat to dry, and Miriel removed her shoes and vest, but neither of them wanted to disrobe any further in front of the other.

Being in the river had finally cleansed them of the blood and she could see the tender pink scars on his chest. Resting on her side, she absently touched her own ribcage, feeling the barely raised bumps under the damp fabric.

“I’m sorry about the scars.” She said. “If I could, I’d take them away.” Boromir had been staring into the fire but now he looked up and smiled ruefully.

“They weren’t my first scars, Lady Miriel, nor will they be my last.”

“I’m not a lady.”

“I beg to differ.”

She had never liked being called a that because she knew underneath all of her love for the father she had never known, he had passed on blood but no titles. She had no rightful claim on the throne of Erebor and ‘lady’ reminded her of that. However, she was hesitant to get into that now. There were things looming over her that they had to discuss, but she was unsure about what and how much she should share. As the days passed and Miriel found herself exhausted and more the beast showed itself to her, she thought that perhaps he deserved to know what he was traveling with. She wasn’t afraid of him turning on her; when she thought about it, perhaps it was shame that kept her mouth closed and realizing that made her defiant of that shame.

“I have them too.” She said, her voice low over the crackle of the fire. He looked bewildered for a second.

“What?” He asked. She sat up, unlacing the neck of her bodice and pulling it aside so he could see the scar above her right breast, perfectly mirroring the one on his own skin. His eyes softened in the light of the fire and for a moment she thought he might reach out and touch it but he halted inches from her skin. Hesitating, finally his hand curled into a fist, withdrawing. “I would not have asked it of you, you must know.” He said, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Miriel had never done anything impulsive in her life, but she did now, taking his hand and pressing it to her heart earnestly.

“I regret nothing.” She said. He stared at her a moment, wetting dry lips.

“How is this possible?” He asked. To this she had something of an answer, but nothing truly satisfactory.

“Calling upon my mother’s star allowed me to save you, but it weakened my magic....I’m afraid including the glamour that allows me to keep this shape.”

“I thought....” He trailed off. “What shape are you normally graced with?” He asked.

“This one.” She reassured him. “I...” she was uncertain how to phrase it. “I would never hurt you.” She said. He took her hand again to reassure her.

“Of course. I don’t think you ever would. Trust me as I trust you.” He said and she saw in his eyes that he thought that this was true, and that eased her mind long enough for it to slip out.

“My blood runs from the stars and into the deep earth. My mother is the dragon Siladhriel and I am afraid to become her.” She said. There was a moment’s silence in which he did not look at her, but he did not drop her hand. Instead he squeezed it, looking deep into the fire.

“One cannot control their parentage. This I know.” He said, getting up to one knee and holding her hand as if pledging himself to her. “I am indebted to you and will be your servant until the day I have paid my debt. And if this illness takes you from me, I will care for whatever creature is in your place until you come back to me.”

Moved by this declaration, she covered her mouth with her free fist, not knowing how to respond other than letting the feeling of moths fluttering take over her stomach. This man was entirely unexpected, noble to the last and she knew not what to make of him nor this feeling towards him.

______________________________________________

Siladhriel had been troubled by dreams. Morgoth came to her with horrors, with temptations, with visions of her girls in distress and of them crowned in their place above all under the mountain. Sorely she desired to speak with Gandalf and for a nights rest. She spent her days in a state of semi-wakefulness, unable to speak. It wasn’t until the messengers from Lorien arrived that she awakened. As soon as she heard that they had arrived she flew into the council, grey robes swirling.

“What news? My girls?” She gasped.

“They are safe” said Elrond, looking somewhat ruffled by the manner in which she had shown up. Haldir was in council, having been the one to carry the news. “We know little of their path after they left Lorien, but there are reports of orc that can move under the full light of day, roving through Rohan.” Elrond fixed her with a grey eyed stare, then sighed. “Gandalf did not make it out of Moria.”

It didn’t process at first. Stricken, Siladhriel sat in one of the carved chairs, clutching at her chest.

“What do you mean?”

“They encountered a Balrog. He sacrificed himself to spare the fellowship.”

That meant they were now out there without Gandalf’s guidance or protection; one of the few things that had reassured her about the twins leaving the safety of the elves without her.

_Oh. My old friend._

Heartsick for Gandalf and afraid for her daughters, she wept. The next morning she left Rivendale, following the path of the fellowship.


	8. Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Gandalf is back, Miriel is having "problems", and Baerandwen develops a crush

“Aragorn. Something’s out there.”

It was Legolas’s sharp eyes that warned them first of the approaching lone figure. Aragorn took council with him. Legolas’s eyes narrowed, tracking movement that the rest of the could not see, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The white wizard approaches.”

“Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us.” Said Aragorn, the company simultaneously reaching for their weapons. They prepared. Baerandwen felt a pang for their sorceress, knowing that their best weapon against Saruman was missing. “We must be quick” Said Aragorn. Her fingers tightened on her axes, loosening them in their sheaths.

A white light assaulted their eyes- they struck all at once, but Baerandwen found her flying axes deflected and Aragorn dropped his blade, finding it too hot to touch. They shielded their eyes from the light in awe and fear, but there was no parrying attack. Instead, a distorted voice called out to them.

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits.” it said. “They passed this way, day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?” The light faded steadily until they no longer had to blink it away and they were confronted with the last face they expected to see ever again. Gimli gasped and Legolas cried his name.

“Gandalf!” He exclaimed. Baerandwen was stricken for a moment, then she rushed forward, embracing him shamelessly. Smiling benevolently, he rested a comforting hand on her head as if she were still the child that he remembered.

“You fell! How can this be?” She asked, looking up to him amazed.  
  
“Through fire, and water. On the lowest dungeon, on the highest peak I fought him, the Balrog of Morgoth until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. Darkness took me and I strayed out of thought and time. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again. I’ve been sent back until my task is done. One stage of your journey is over, another begins. War has come to Rohan, we must ride to Edoras with all speed.”

________________________________

  
Days later they had reached the foot of the White Mountains and Miriel was just as exhausted as before. They had lost their food with their packs and neither of them were familiar with the edible things of Rohan. They tried their best, but what Miriel really needed was meat. Even as she and Boromir devoured some young, spicy tubers they had found, she craved it. Hunting was getting better as they neared the mountains, however. Birds were to be found more plentifully, and they came across a small river in which they found a family of rabbits living in the bank. For the first time in weeks they ate well that night, camped at the base of the mountains under some trees. Miriel had wanted to dig her teeth into them raw, but she had let Boromir skin and gut them and roast them over the fire she had made. Wood was easier to find now. As they ate she could feel her strength come back a little.

Spring had yet to arrive so they had taken to sleeping huddled together as close to the fire as possible. This was for Boromir’s benefit more than hers; if nothing else, it necessary to keep the stronger of them alive. By morning the fire might have died, but as long as she was next to him he had enough warmth to keep from freezing in the night. In truth she had been hesitant to be so close at first, but the night the dreams started she had been grateful for Boromir’s company. They were never specific. She was left with a vague impression of a crowned figure, of an impenetrable darkness, and of an unspeakable malice that she could not place. Tonight he came to her clearer than ever before, that crowned figure, tall and robed in black. His mouth was a gash in a bandaged face, open and sucking. It felt like he was taking something from her as he inhaled, one long nailed hand outstretched and clawing at the air as if he could reach through the dream and grab her in the night.  
  
_Come to me. Return home._

She woke up gasping, her throat closed tight as if that hand were around it. The fire was embers like eyes in the dark and she could not breathe, struggling into a sitting position. She ached all over. Itched. So distressed was she that she opened her mouth to whimper but out came a low bay of a moan that sounded entirely unlike her. Her jaw felt heavy and she opened it wider, finding that nothing was preventing her from opening her mouth wide enough to fit a whole rabbit should she desire. She felt the hinges of her jaw and found that they were unspeakably loose. Feeling the skin of her face, it too was wrong. This had happened once when she was very small and very sick, but being so aware of it now was terrifying.

Disturbed by her movement, Boromir stirred next to her, wondering where the heat had gone. She scrambled backwards from him which caused him to wake, hand seeking the little knife that was their protection.

__________________________

Boromir was grateful for Miriel’s heat and did not question it when he found her in his arms at night, though he found himself wakened before sunrise by quick, panicked movement. He instinctively went for his knife before sitting up and realizing through bleary eyes that they were alone.

“Miriel?” He asked. She had shuffled backwards from him, towards the other side of the dying fire. He could barely see her in the dark, the glow of the embers showing him only that she was curled into herself, knees to her chest and head in her hands. “Miriel, what’s wrong?” A noise greeted him, but it was not her voice. It was another voice, deep and twisted, larger than her body.

“Don’t look at me!” She said. He sheathed the little knife, getting to his knees and crawling over to sit next to her. She shied from him, still curled in a ball. He was having a hard time figuring out what had awakened him, but he was patient.  
  
“Let me see.” He said. She shook her head. “Please.” He said. There was a sniffle, then slowly, she lifted her head. At first Boromir didn’t know what he was seeing, until he realized that the patches of skin on her face reflecting the light from the embers were pale scales, almost iridescent in the low light. When she spoke, her teeth were unlike her teeth, double edged and sharp. She was halfway to some other form, struggling to keep weakness at bay. He could not imagine what it was like to be stuck half in a regular form and half in a terrifying one. He reached out and she flinched. “I’m not afraid.” he said, halting for a moment. She gazed at him with the afraid, wet eyes of a creature unlike her usual self, hazy green and slit pupiled. He touched her skin, feeling the scales give slightly under his touch. They were leathery but soft, a gentle pink in the glow of the dying fire, They were beautiful, in a way, and he did not loathe them. Even frightened and disgusted by herself, whatever creature this was in Miriel’s place, she was even as beautiful as the girl. “You’re okay. You’re with me.” He said.  
  
She pressed her face into his hand with a sigh, taking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. As she relaxed, her cheek softened beneath his touch into her normal alabaster skin. Her teeth seemed to rearrange themselves, and when she opened her eyes again they were hazy but round pupiled, weak but herself. Exhausted, she leaned into him and he embraced her. Whatever was happening to her, she seemed to be keeping her rational mind; the beast was peeking out but she was tame in the very least. He didn’t know how to make her better; all he knew was that he had taken from her life force that she did not seem to be gaining back.

_________________________________

That morning, Edoras appeared in the hills of Rohan before Gandalf and his company of four.

“Edoras, and the Golden Hall of Meduseld.” He said. “There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown. Saruman’s hold over King Théoden is now very strong. Be careful what you say. And do not look for welcome here.”

With this warning they went through the gates and made their way up the thoroughfare and to the steps of the king’s hall. A woman stood at the top, straw colored hair blowing in the wind. She turned neither left nor right, gazing straight out into the distance over the hills of the Rohirrim, entranced by something. As they started the long steps upwards, this chill herald now turned and disappeared into the hall. They made it to the doors without incident, but there they were stopped by the king’s guard. A bearded man in mail stepped forward, brows furrowed.

“I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Grayhame by order of Grima Wormtongue.” He said. Gandalf clicked his tongue quietly, but nodded to the others. Baerandwen remembered the words of the leader of the riders days before and would have much preferred to keep her axes, but she obeyed Gandalf’s command. Gandalf turned back to the guardsman with a disarming smile. “Your staff” said the guardsman. Gandalf frowned, leaning upon his staff, his eyebrows bowing as if he were greatly weary.

“Oh...You would not part an old man from his walking stick?” He asked. The guardsman grimaced but after a slight hesitation, nodded and stepped aside so they could pass. As they passed, Gandalf dropped the slightest of winks to Baerandwen, who in turn looked straight ahead and towards their goal, lest she smile and give it all away. There she saw the same woman who had been at the top of the stairs as if waiting for them. She lingered behind a beam, fingers and cheek rasping against the rough wood. She watched them with cold blue eyes and a stern mouth. It was a pleasing mouth and could have been turned upwards into a gentle smile, but she had the look of a woman whose adulthood had come upon her suddenly and with steel. Her eyes followed them up the hall.

“The courtesy of your hall has somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King.” Said Gandalf. A figure bent at the king’s ear, a greasy excuse for a man swathed in black fur. Eyes darting between the members of the company and finally resting calculatingly on Gandalf, he whispered in the king’s ear. Theoden was not a young man, but he seemed to have aged beyond his years. When he spoke, it was haltingly, through a mouth of gravel.

“Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?” He said, looking to his advisor as if for approval. He had it. The man came forward, stepping in front of the throne and towards the company.

“A just question my liege. Late is the hour in which this conjuror chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him, ill news is an ill guest.” He said. Gandalf dismissed him

  
“Be silent. Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crude words with a witless worm.” Gandalf said, raising his staff. The unfortunate adviser began to back away, calling for his guards.

“His staff. I told you to take the wizards staff!” He shouted; some came forward to his aid, others around the hall did not. Baerandwen saw now the whole of the plan. She needed no weapons to handle these men, striking before they could unsheathe their swords. Beside her, Gimli wrestled a man to the floor and Aragorn sent his knee into the groin of another, sending the man to the ground in agony. Gandalf walked among them unbothered, focusing his voice upon Theoden. He called out to him, calling him by his name and invoking his true mind to surface. Theoden, or what had taken his place, only laughed.

“You have no power here Gandalf the Grey.” He said. His laughter, however, turned to a horrified cry as Gandalf threw off his grey cloak, shining through the hall like the white sun.  
  
“I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound.” He said, thrusting his staff towards Theoden. Theoden hit the back of the chair as if blasted by some unseen force. Baerandwen caught movement out of the corner of her eye, catching the straw haired woman before she could get to the throne. She didn’t want to restrain the woman, but she struggled and Baerandwen tightened her grip, trying to keep her voice low and reassuring. She was loathe to break this delicate thing in her rough hands.

“Wait- he won’t harm him.” She said. The woman looked to her and then desperately, to her king again.

“Be gone!” Said Gandalf. Theoden screamed, lunging at Gandalf- who in turn hit him quite soundly with his staff, knocking him back into his chair. With this the fight seemed to go out of him and he slid down in his throne. The woman again struggled in Baerandwen’s arms and she released her. She ran to her king’s side, catching him before he fell. As they looked on, years seemed to fall away from Theoden’s face. He looked to the woman who held him with wonderment.

“I know your face. Éowyn. Éowyn.” He said. She embraced him. “Gandalf? He asked. Gandalf clapped him on the shoulder as if he had not just hit his old friend in the face.

“Breathe the free air again my friend.” He said.

_________________________________

They did not leave after Gandalf had struck Saruman from Theoden’s spirit, instead staying so Gandalf could council him on the approaching wave. There was no question that war had come to Rohan and Baerandwen bored of the discussions of what to do and who to send and where to go- she wandered the wood beamed palace, stopping for a moment at an open door.

She had stumbled upon the chamber where temporarily, the women washed the dead. Upon a slab lay the cold body of a young man, fair of hair and face like the flaxen haired queen who tended to him. She moved with a grace befitting her station, her skin like alabaster in the torchlight and her wrists delicately turned. She was as fair as any elf maiden, truly a sight to behold in the world of men. But Baerandwen did not mean to intrude in a private moment so she went to turn away from the young man’s nakedness, but the woman she had been watching stopped her.

“Come in, don’t linger.” She said, her voice low but commanding. “I need more hands.” Baerandwen had seen bodies, but mostly orc bodies. They did nothing to prepare her for this man, pale and marred with blood. Eowyn, for that was her name, was holding his head so another woman could place a small cushion below his neck. Her sleeves were rolled up and though she wore pure white, no blood or dirt marked her clothing. “Here.” Eowyn said, handing her one of his arms. As Baerandwen held it, Eowyn carefully washed the grime from it with a wet cloth. Baerandwen did not often think about death, only of the death of her father, not of active, human death. But it struck her then- what was human, besides a delicate balance of flesh and spirit, so easily broken? “You are with the company that came with Gandalf.” She said. It was not a question. She did not lift her eyes from her work. Baerandwen nodded.

“My name is Baerandwen.” She said. A moment passed. She looked at the young man’s golden hair and delicate cheekbones. Far too delicate. “Who was he, to you?” She asked. Eowyn stopped for only a moment, her fine lashes trembling, then returned to her work.

“My cousin. King Theoden’s son.”

Baerandwen had thought her the king’s wife; she held herself with the bearing of a queen, cared for the king like a steward.

“They come bearing the white hand of Saruman, and kill our people and burn our villages.” Eowyn said, anger boiling low in her voice. “Our young men are brave, but they fall. I wish....” She paused, taking a deep breath. Baerandwen watch her carefully, then reached out and briefly- put her hand on Eowyn’s. She halted sponging, looking at Baerandwen. Baerandwen could not say anything, thinking of her father and her sister who were lost to that evil race and so tears were brought to her eyes. She blinked them away, taking the cloth from Eowyn gently and continuing the task of cleaning grime from the cold body. Normally she would be loathe to speak so openly of her grief, especially in front of the women who also tended the body, but Eowyn’s trembling beauty and vulnerability unbarred her heart.

“I know of that pain.” She said, finally. “My sister, my twin....She’s gone. Taken or killed by the same breed you speak of. The wound is as fresh as yours, and I desire recompense.”

She wanted to tell her that the tall rider had robbed her of her revenge, but she could not speak ill of this cold flower’s people. Instead, she carefully laid the young man’s arm down and began to wipe carefully at a streak of blood on his neck.

“I’m sorry.” Eowyn said.

“Do not be. She...and he,” she said, looking at the body before her before looking up to Eowyn, her eyes hard. “They died valiantly and there is no lack of honor in that. We only should be sorry if we let them die for nothing, without destroying the enemy utterly.” Eowyn’s eyes fixed on her, a sudden hunger coming to them that Baerandwen recognized in the split second she held her gaze. This was an unlikely warrior, whether she held a sword or merely wielded the power of words, and in her distant heart there was a strength that made her queenly despite her lack of crown.


	9. Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Baeradwen gets validated, Miriel gets down to the root of the problem 
> 
> NSFW content this chapter

Theoden would not make open war against Mordor; he did not want to risk it. But his people still suffered and so a decision was made.

“By order of the King, the city must empty.” Hama shouted to the crowd outside the hall. “We make for the refuge of Helm’s Deep. Do not burden yourself with treasures. Take only what provisions you need.”

Gandalf was dismayed that his council would be so willfully ignored, his strides long as they made their way through the stables.

“Helm’s Deep!” He exclaimed, exasperated. “They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight. There is no way out of that ravine. Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he’s leading them into safety. What they’ll get is a massacre.”

“Then should we not summon all the forces we can to fortify the fortress?” Baerandwen asked. She knew her battle tactics; if they were to be besieged, it would be best to surprise the enemy from outside the fortress and trap them between attacking forces. Gandalf mounted his horse, looking down at her with a sigh. She took his outstretched hand, loathe to let him go after losing him the first time but knowing that he must go. He knew this and squeezed her hand, but denied her to go with him.

“You must stay, Baerandwen. King Theoden needs brave captains to guard his people in this time of need.”

“I will miss you.” She said. He looked grim.

“Three hundred lives of men I have walked this earth and now I have no time. With luck my search will not be in vain. Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east.”

Their hands parted and he broke into a gallop, disrupting the activity in the stables. Baerandwen had nothing but her traveling pack, so she helped the royal family prepare and set out upon the journey. She had not ridden a horse before, so she chose to walk, somewhat embarrassed in front of Lady Eowyn that she could not handle the animal that her people so loved. However, as the lady in white also walked, it gave Baerandwen a better chance to know her. There were sick and old and children to care for, and Baerandwen did not shirk this responsibility, carrying one end of an old man’s stretcher as Eowyn walked beside her at the head of the civilian caravan. The guard was out ahead of the caravan, on horseback, but Baerandwen reasoned that she would be swift to join them should there be an alarm. Until there was, she did not leave Eowyn’s side. They seemed only to have eyes for each other, marching steadily through the plains and into the rocky hills uncomplaining and glad to learn about the other.

Eowyn had also lost her father to orcs, and her mother to grief. Baerandwen well knew how this felt, thinking of her mother’s spells of silence and mourning that lasted sometimes for years. She and her sister had learned to care for their mother as she had cared for them, and she knew how heavy secondhand grief could be.

______________________________

“It’s true, you don’t see many Dwarf women. And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance that they’re often mistaken for Dwarf men.” Gimli said. He too was having a hard time staying on his mount, but they passed the time easily by talking.

“Not all of them.” Baerandwen said. Gimli sputtered into his beard, having almost forgotten.

“What do you know of dwarf women, Lady Baerandwen?” asked Eowyn. Baerandwen flushed. For the first time she wanted to be seen as gentle and refined in front of her new companion and that was best fit by her mother’s blood, but she would not deny her father under any circumstances.

“My father was of the house of Durin.”

“Durin? Durin’s direct line fell long ago.” Eowyn said, blue eyes wide. Eighty years was enough time for the tale to have traveled far across middle earth, even to Rohan.

“Aye,” Baerandwen said. “My father was Oakenshield and I am an Oakenshield like him.”

“Then you are noble, of a noble house!” Eowyn exclaimed. Baerandwen’s mouth twisted a little.

“No.” She said. “Girlfolk hold a special place in dwarvish hearts, but it is only the males that are heirs.”

“I am a sheildmaiden; my brother Eomer would rule before me, but that does not mean I am not capable of leading my people, nor should it mean that for you.” Eowyn said, her voice firm. This was unexpected, and Baerandwen felt her heart open for her.

________________________________________

Baerandwen learned that though she may be beautiful, stern, and strong, Eowyn was not perfect. She had chosen to sit by the fire Eowyn tended that night, doing her best to help distribute bowls of stew that the fair lady had made to the people. Most of them refused the food, though Baerandwen did not learn why until she had received her own bowl and sat with it by the fire. She learned quickly that the unidentifiable ingredients were somewhat, but not entirely edible, her pale complexion tinging with a slight shade of green in the firelight as she tasted it. Forcing herself to swallow, she thought of her mother and her control, blanking her face of any disgust.

“How is it?” Eowyn asked, searching her face somewhat worriedly.

“It pleases me, My Lady.” Baerandwen lied, boldly. For the first time since she had met her, Eowyn smiled- nay, beamed, and a night sun seemed to break across Baerandwen’s astonished face, making her forget the taste of the stew in favor of this beauty that graced her eyes. Eowyn ladled an extra portion into her bowl.

“Here. You must keep your strength up.” She said, a light blush coming across her face. Baerandwen didn’t even blanch, entirely focused on the heartbeat in her reddening ears and this ethereal creature that would give her her attentions.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

_______________________________________________

It took Baerandwen two days of travel to get comfortable riding a horse on her own, as every animal she was given seemed to be nervous to be handled by her. Finally they gave her a venerable old mare of a warhorse who had seen and done much and accepted Baerandwen’s burden more readily than the rest. She rode now with Eowyn walking by her side, occasionally making her way from the front of the line to the back of it to check with the rearguard on the request of the king. Returning to the front of the caravan this time, she found Eowyn missing. She questioned the people that had been walking around her and they said that she had left the line in search of a child who had wandered off. This did not concern her too greatly, but still she did not like the idea of the lady Eowyn possibly being left behind; she urged her horse into a light canter cutting through the crowd and in the direction that the man had pointed.

She trotted through the hills and upwards, sniffing the air to perhaps catch a whiff of the lady and her charge to find them more quickly. Because of this it was the smell that struck her before anything else, a beast smell that she did not recognize. And another she did. Goblin.

She kicked her horse into action, knowing that to raise the alarm she would have to forsake Eowyn and the child- she would not abandon the lady to death. She heard them before she saw them, a goblin rider on a snarling warg pacing towards Eowyn and a small, whimpering child. Eowyn had drawn her sword and was holding it steady towards the approaching warg, but Baerandwen saw no good coming of this.

“My Lady! To me!” She shouted, causing all to look up. She came in a thunder of flying hooves, circling around the woman and child to block the coming onslaught and sliding from the beast and to her feet. Swiftly, she lifted the girl up onto the horse, shouting to Eowyn as she did so.

“Take her and go! Raise the alarm!”

Eowyn needed no help nor bidding to take the child away, leaping onto the horse behind her and taking the reigns. It reared in a sudden turn and she struck her heels against its sides to urge it into a gallop to warn the approaching caravan. These actions had taken time and the approaching warg was almost upon her, leaping high. Drawing her axes, she rushed it with a terrible cry, ducking at the last minute and sliding under the charging beast as she skidded under its flying form. Striking up at it’s exposed belly as she did so, her axes sliced through the creature’s hide and showered her in its hot guts. The animal came down hard and tumbled as it landed, crushing its rider under the weight of the great beast and breaking the orc’s spine. Getting to her feet, she did not sheathe her axes, breaking into a run back in the direction of the caravan and shouting as she did, hoping that her voice would carry or that Legolas’s ears were keen enough to hear her.

“WARG RIDERS, THERE ARE SCOUTS APPROACHING!” She came running into sight of the party, covered in warg blood. The caravan halting and then exploded into a frenzy as Eowyn reached them on horseback. Screams echoed across the hills. “To arms, we are under attack!” Baerandwen called. Eowyn rounded the front of the group, beginning to shout commands as the mounted riders at the front kicked their horses into a fast gallop to meet the enemy. Baerandwen sheathed her axes as they approached, running all the faster as Aragorn came riding near the head. He reached out an arm and she took it, swinging herself lightly onto horseback behind him. A rider threw her a spear and she caught it, hefting it into a throwing position so she would be ready.

The first warg she saw took that spear to the face, knocking it backwards with a yelp and losing its rider in the process. As they rode past, she snatched the spear from its body, hoisting it dripping back into the air for another throw.

Now she would have her revenge.

______________________________________

There were caves aplenty in the mountains; by the maps that were long lost to the wilderness and now stored in Miriel’s head, they were getting close to the white city. In fact, once they had mounted the peaks of the range they now traveled over they would be able to see Minas Tirith in the distance. They had been many days on the road and spring was approaching, but it was still cold enough that they had spent many nights by the fire like this. It was innocent, his back against the wall and her back against his chest, his arms around her, a sharing of warmth and comfort where there was little to be had. But Miriel could not help but let her mind wander to Haldir. However, lately, her pining had turned sour. It was Boromir who held her now, who comforted her after nightmares and reassured her of her goodness when she thought she could no longer contain any. _Haldir can never love you._ She did not presume that _Boromir_ did, only that they were weary and took comfort in each other as survivors did.

This thought made her ache in a way that she did not know what to do with. Boromir was noble, and a loyal companion, but she did not know how much of it was his debt to her and how much he truly felt for her. This nightly closeness was somewhat by choice; they could have continued to sleep on opposite sides of the fire, but instead they chose to hold each other to prevent freezing and loneliness. Often now, she woke in this man’s arms and knew not truly why they chose to hold each other in the night.

_________________________________________

Boromir had grown comfortable with this maiden in his arms, his last companion and charge. He had pledged himself in service to her, Miriel the fair, and he would not be separated from her. Tonight she was tense like a whip, staring deep into the fire in contemplation of some secret she would not tell him. He wished to soothe her as she did him, but he was a man of battle, not of fair words. Still, she began to shake and he knew that he must say something to ease her ills, lest she perhaps transform as she did when she was distressed in the night.

“You tremble as if you would fly from me. Will you stay? I would not be separated from you tonight.” He asked, earnestly. Truly he felt if she were to disappear into the night she would become whatever creature threatened to show itself and he would never see her again. There was a silence between them until she finally answered, voice soft and musical.

“You have such sweet words for me.” She said. He thought carefully and the truth came from his lips.

“I desire sweet things for you.” He said. And he did. He wished they had met in better times, without loss and without fear of the darkness that was soon to envelop this part of the world. It had taken Osgiliath from his people and threatened to take her, and he would not have it.

The tips of her slightly pointed ears gave her away, turning pink. When she glanced back to him she found him looking at her. Slowly, her hand crept across the stone floor of the cave, bridging the gap across the stone towards his, their pinkies meeting and then locking one over the other. So hesitant was she, so unsure of herself when he knew her to be stronger than fear. What could cause her to be so tremulous when she had looked death in the very face and declared that it would not win that day?

“Are we merely survivors of that last battle, and cling to each other for lack of any others to comfort us?” She asked. He thought for a moment of what she was asking, but now the words came easy to him.

“What is it you fear?” He asked. She took a very shaky breath.

“I fear I would give myself to you as you have pledged yourself to me.” She said. This revelation loosened the hesitant bands around his heart and tongue.

“My heart beats because of you, and so for you. To possess you as a lover would be my greatest pleasure, but I would never overstep my duty as your servant.”

__________________________________________

Miriel blushed like fire, ruddy patches appearing high on her pale cheeks and at the tips of her ears. So the river between them was only in her imagination. She turned to look fully at him, knowing that one as noble as he would not lie to her. Truly this must be his heart. This thing that had wormed its way inside her must be desire; though it was the first time she had faced that enemy and had no weapons against it. She disentangled her hand from his to lift it to his face, cupping his cheek and feeling the softness of his beard there. He gazed at her steadily, though with brows furrowed as if unsure what she would say to this declaration.

“As your heart beats for me, I take great comfort in you and wish not to be separated from you.” She said. His brows softened and he brought his hand to hold hers once more, turning his head to kiss her palm. Her stomach fluttered at this gesture. He pulled her closer and she let him, comfortable in his arms after so many nights.

“Would you grant me a kiss as token of this?” He asked. She smiled. Still, she hesitated, knowing a man such as he might be already taken by arrangement if not by love.

“Is there some fair girl in your city I am disappointing?” She asked, dark lashes fluttering. As their noses brushed this way and that as if afraid to touch lips; then their lips brushed and then parted again, sending electricity through her. She could taste his breath, herbal and a little of tobacco.  
  
“There is a fair girl here it would disappoint me not to kiss.” He murmured, his eyes half closed in anticipation. Her strength against him was failing, her fingertips slipping shyly across his hands. His beard prickled her cheek, but it was more soft than wiry.

“That is no answer.” She said. His strong fingers intertwined with hers, lowering her hand to his chest and then depositing it rest there upon his outer tunic where she could feel his strong heartbeat.

“You are the only woman I would give my heart to.” Given this permission, cautiously, gently, their lips met, pressing together chastely at first. Her fingers clutched at his tunic and his hand came up to again grasp hers, squeezing suddenly with the fervor of his kiss. He requested entrance gently with his tongue and she acquiesced, gasping a little as he invaded her mouth. Her other hand soon became tangled in his shaggy hair, he pulling her backwards so he lay upon the stone floor and she leaned closed down upon his chest. Not knowing exactly what she was doing but following an instinct, she climbed on top at the invitation, straddling his waist and kissing him with all the passion she could muster, hands clasped around his face.

In the moment it did not strike her as rash- in fact she could hardly hold a rational thought at all. Never before had her blood come to a boil like this. She felt the full force of her blood’s passion- something both like man and creature, a fire within her. Halting the kiss only long enough to shuck off her vest, she kissed him again and his hands slid up her loose blouse, appreciating all they found there. They were gentle but cold compared to her heat and she gasped, shivering. Bereft of her mouth, he kissed her neck, causing another gasp and a deeper shudder of pleasure. She grasped his tunic with her hands, wishing to tear it in her fever- he pushed her upwards for only as long as it took to remove his layers, struggling a little and tossing them aside as if in a temper with them. As he did so, she pulled her blouse over her head, both of them leaping upon eachother again as soon as they were free.

Skin against skin was the greatest pleasure, Boromir letting her down upon the cold stone floor. Miriel made a noise of discomfort that soon turned to a moan as his mouth latched onto her breast. Her back arched off the floor and her fingers tangled once again in his hair, encouraging this wonderful new feeling. She felt delicate in his arms, yet never stronger, never more alive than with this man of Gondor. Something in her wished to stretch its wings, clawing at the walls of her chest, and she freed it just a little, her fingers raking down his bare back and leaving long bloodied scratches. He hissed but did not release her, leaving his own marks upon her neck and chest. He yanked the strings that held her trousers closed and she wriggled out of them, kicking them out of the way. It was the first time that she had been so exposed in front of another, but in her heat she did not fear. She wrapped a leg around one of his, pulling him closer to grind against her exposed sex. This tease was too much for him; he groaned into her neck, fumbling for a moment with one hand to free himself from his own breeches. She reached down to guide him into her, feeling him hot and heavy in her hand.

She gasped as he entered her, feeling a pinch of unexpected pain before it dissolved into a trembling heat. She doubted he could sense it, but she smelled blood and knew that there was no turning back. She did not wish to, urging him closer in a sort of madness that escaped her as a keening moan. His name came to her lips and she let it out.

“Boromir....!”


	10. Blessed by the Valar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: The Valar get involved, Miriel informs Boromir that they're hitched, our local disaster gay puts the politest possible moves on Eowyn

Siladhriel wandered the wilderness naked and alone; she regretted transforming into the dragon, but in her distress after had left Rivendale she had become herself in her most base form, taking wing to discover if she could find them from the air. It had been many days on foot and she was tired of tramping through the woods, spreading her wings and wheeling high, searching, searching. She went high over plains and mountain ranges, traveling further than she ever would were she not searching for her offspring. 

After days in that form, she was hungry and frustrated, fury at her situation boiling to the surface. She blamed herself for this; she should have gone with them, but her own cold heart had not been ready to quest again when she so sorely missed her lover. This was her fault. She landed at the foot of the Misty Mountains, the earth shaking as she stomped her great clawed feet. Anger with herself boiling over and greatly hungered, she let loose a blast of flame in a great arc, a earth shattering roar escaping with it. As the fire faded, she found herself enveloped in light, her form diminishing into vulnerability and nakedness before the power that presented itself to her. A voice came from the light and she threw up her hands to protect her eyes.

“Daughter, turn back.” It said. Burgeoning anger marred her heart, shielding her eyes against the light and shouting into it.

“Who are you to tell me to abandon my own blood??”

The light faded and before her stood a woman fairer than even Lady Galadriel, a woman robed in stars whose beauty shone as if the light of the sun. She spoke gently, yet her voice seemed to echo as if with great power.

“I am Varda, though you may know me as Elbereth. It was my star and his own ambitions that Morgoth forged you from.”

Elbereth. Siladhriel fell to her knees, exhausted by her own fury and unable to face one of the Valar with her defiance. Elbereth smiled upon her rebellious daughter, knowing her heart. Siladhriel’s voice cracked when she asked.

“Why must I abandon them?”

“Because you are capable of love, and that must now extend to all good of middle earth, not only your direct line; I created the star that is your heart, and granted you this form because I knew you could be a force for all that is good. Your distress now is proof of that. Your love for your daughters is as pure as any of the heart of elf or man. But their part is not yet done and you cannot halt their progress.”

“Tell me, are they alive? Are they safe?”

“Your fair haired daughter rides with a company of Rohan into siege, and the one who looks like her father is ill, but travels with a companion to Minas Tirith.”

“They have been separated?” Siladhriel asked, clutching her chest. Varda nodded gently. They had never been without each other, drawing their strength from the other; and now, Miriel was ill? “What manner of illness?” She asked.

“She gave her companion part of her life force and so battles daily to keep up the glamour that keeps her fair. Soon she may show the dragon to the world.” Varda said. Siladhriel bristled, knowing that Minas Tirith was a city of men and that men did not take kindly to dragons. Miriel was walking into danger. And for what reason had she given her life force; what companion deserved her vital magics? Varda knew her thoughts and answered the question without it having been said. “She is in love.” She said, gently. Siladhriel wept.

“What can I do?” She asked through her tears.

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Miriel awoke without her clothes, curled half on Boromir’s chest and half on the floor, one of his arms around her and the other resting under his head. For a moment she marveled at him, but regretfully soon it faded into doubt. In the moment it had felt good. Right, even. Now realizing what she had done she felt irresponsible. Thinking about it, men of the south may be far enough removed from Numenor that they had forgotten the elvish ways. How rashly she had acted! But she was not to be separated from this man of Gondor now and he must know. He stirred, opening his eyes to look at her.

“Blessed morning.” He said in greeting.

“Blessed by the Valar.” She answered. She could not help a small smile. For the moment, she wished to enjoy this. However, once they had dressed and set their direction for the day’s walking, it had eaten a hole in her and she could not restrain herself any longer. Keeping her eyes on her boots so she might not trip, she broached the subject that they seemed comfortable not talking about.

“My lord...”

“My lord?” He asked with a little laugh, caught off guard and puzzled that she would address him this way when they knew the other so well.

“Last night....” She began, but halted, seeing his face fall at her hesitancy around the subject. Their pace did not break.

“Did you not enjoy it?” That he would ask such a thing brought fire to her face once more to remember their passion, her very breath seeming warm.

“I did! But...I should have told you before...by the customs of my people....” He did not seem to see where this was going so she blurted the rest of it out. “My Lord, by the customs of my people, we have been wed.”

“Wed?” He sounded surprised and she suspected the worst, that he would now abandon her.“Truly?” He asked. She looked down, her courage suddenly failing her. She should have known that he wouldn’t be aware of this custom. Halting his pace, he took her by the waist and lifted her into the air as if she weighed little, exclaiming “My strong, lovely wife!”. Caught off guard, she sailed through the air with a confounded expression that soon broke into a wide smile and a bubbling laugh. “We must meet my father right away when we arrive,” he said “but he will be pleased to find that I went to Elrond for council and returned also with a wife!”

This she did doubt somewhat; her lessons on the race of men had started only recently, but she did not know of any that did not closely guard the family lines of their nobility. No matter, for as she came down, she embraced him and he her, and for a moment it was the most perfect she had ever felt. Again he kissed her, and though it was chaste it held all the passion of the previous night in its press.

_______________________________________

A sorry crew of riders made it through the gates of Helm’s Deep; Baerandwen came in with head hanging and covered in stinking back blood. Though seeing that the civilian caravan had made it unscathed let her know the sacrifice was not for nothing. As they came through the gates, Eowyn ran to her uncle, questioning.

“So few. So few of you have returned!” she said, eyes worried and tired.

“Our people are safe. We have paid for it with many lives.” Theoden answered, wearily. He was old and his heart was numb to carnage. So much loss, and only to reach a safe haven that may not be safe for long. “Take the injured to the wise women so they can be fit as soon as battle reaches us again.”

She nodded, eyes fixing on Baerandwen’s bowed and bloodied form. She rushed to her companion’s horse, putting a hand on her leg.

“Lady Baerandwen, are you sorely hurt?” She asked. Baerandwen lifted her head and a curious light was in her eyes, wet and glittering as if in a fever. She uncurled the fingers that had been gripping some small object. There revealed was a star of silver and diamond set upon a fine but broken chain. Her voice was somewhat choked.

“It’s not my blood....We lost Aragorn.”

“Get those who cannot fight into the caves, the women and children and the old.” Commanded Theoden. Eowyn turned to obey and direct the flow of civilians. Before she did so, she coaxed Baerandwen from her mare.

“Come, you cannot wear that stinking blood, you will frighten people.”

__________________________________

Baerandwen was led to a chamber deep inside Helm’s deep where Eowyn prepared a tub for her. She turned away as she took off her stinking garments, taking them and plunging them into a smaller tub of their own to soak. Elvish garments were silvery and light, but blood washed easily from them. The water was warm and sinking into it, Baerandwen realized how many days it had been since she had been clean. As she sank below the water Eowyn came once more with a washcloth and some sweet smelling oil. She wet the rag in the tub and then poured the oil upon it, wringing it out and beginning to gently cleanse Baerandwen’s neck and back of blood. It smelled of sweet grass and last spring’s gentle wildflowers.

“I thought you were told not to burden yourselves with treasures.” She said. Eowyn clicked her tongue dismissively.

“It is so small a thing.” she said.

“And you would willingly use it on me?” Baerandwen asked. Eowyn did not look at her, sponging blood from her arms and shoulders. She was exposed completely to her, but she did not mind. They were women and shared the same bodies.

“Wet your hair.” Eowyn said, and Baerandwen sank deeper into the bath, submerging herself and finding that it was peaceful there under the water. Holding her breath seemed to calm her and she did not resurface until she had run out of air, coming up with a rush of water and a gasp. Clutching her knees, she tilted her head back as Eowyn poured the oil onto her scalp, combing the tangles from her silky hair. Though her lady paid such great pains to her, she could not stop her mind from wandering. Aragorn’s loss ate at her; she had slain many goblins and wargs that day, but the new loss did not ease the blood lust in her heart. In fact, she did not feel as if she had had satisfactory recompense for her sister and now there was a new loss in her companions.

“I fear I will never be satisfied in battle.” She said. “Having lost my sister and now Aragorn, who was our greatest hope beyond Frodo....there is naught left in me but a thirst for revenge that will never be slaked. I began this quest as a noble undertaking and now it has wrought me of blood and iron.”

“You are noble still, Lady Baerandwen.” Eowyn said, rinsing her hair with a pitcher drawn from the bath. “If so great an evil is to come for us, I would desire none but you defending our gates and my people.” The washcloth came to wipe at the blood that marred her face, their gaze locking on the other, unable to pull away.

“Do you desire me.....” Baerandwen began, licking her lips and tasting the blood there. Eowyn’s eyes lifted to her own, looking at her through her fair lashes, not knowing how to answer this. Baerandwen tried again, quickly. “If you desire me to guard you for as long as I stand, I would gladly do so, my lady Eowyn.” She said. Eowyn looked long into her bloodstained face.

“Would you stop me from going to battle myself?” she asked.

“I would stop you from nothing you desired; I only ask that I may be at your side and that my axes might strike also at your enemies.” Said Baerandwen. They sat in silence for a moment, the only noise the movement of water. Eowyn’s wide blue eyes were locked with hers; they seemed warmer than they had been in Edoras, then she lowered her gaze, the washcloth now grazing gently across the tops of Baerandwen’s breasts.

“Will you allow me...? The blood...” Eowyn asked. The heat of the bath had already brought the color into Baerandwen’s face, but now she swallowed thirstily, her own hand creeping to grasp Eowyn’s. However, she did not control it, letting the lady move where she wished. Lower it went, cupping one of her breasts.

“Yes.” She breathed. Gently, Eowyn washed it of the blood that had soaked through the fabric of her tunic. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and attempted to controlled herself, but her heart beating high. Finally the washcloth moved lower, caressing her exposed stomach and finding bruises there. She looked at Eowyn again. “Your king will need me at the wall, but if I survive would you allow me to be your companion and guard?” She asked.

“To have you as my guard, I would be joyful, but to have you as a companion I would desire nothing more.” She said, finally meeting Baerandwen’s eyes. She wanted so strongly to simply pull the woman into the water with her, but she deserved a gentle touch and so she asked; her mouth opened several times before it had the bravery to come out.

“Would you join me?” She asked.

“Join you?”

“In the bath. You are also weary from the road.” She clarified. Eowyn hesitated. “Do not think I would do anything that you will not give me explicit permission to do.”

“I would not think that.” Eowyn said, eyes lowered. She glanced to the door, knowing that she had responsibilities. With a shuddering breath, she let them go and stood, turning her back on Baerandwen and kneeling, pulling aside her golden hair so Baerandwen could see the restraining strings of her corset. “Would you unlace me?” She asked. Baerandwen’s swift fingers, so skillful with a weapon, fumbled a little until they were loose. Eowyn shed her corset and the soft dress underneath was loose enough that she pulled a string at the neck and it slid down her body. She trembled but did not cover herself, standing proudly in Baerandwen’s gaze.

“Having lived with the elves, you must think me very common.” She said, a wry smile twisting her pretty lips to the side. As she lowered herself into the tub across from Baerandwen it overflowed onto the floor, coming high to cover their breasts and arms. Baerandwen was transfixed on her face.

“Your beauty rivals even the fairest of them, my lady. I would desire to look on no other face but yours and be satisfied.”

Eowyn blushed. Truly Baerandwen felt she was meant for battle and all of its savageries, but this softness she did not wish to let go of. She had loved women of all kinds since she was a child, but this queenly creature had captured her attentions and her heart, and if she were to follow anyone into death, it would be this woman.

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	11. All Things Pure and Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: Helms deep leaves Baerandwen with some doubts that Eowyn is quick to soothe, Boromir and Miriel arrive at the white city 
> 
> NSFW lesbian content this chapter

Their goodbye was long; Eowyn was hesitant to stay in the caves and made it clear that she did not do so willingly.

“Where is the renown in this? Caring for the women and the children and the old? I wish to go to battle with you.” She said.

“Should the men fall, there must be a strong leader left to ensure the survival of your people; there is nobleness in that. I must go to the wall, I cannot refute the orders of your uncle, the king.” She said. Eowyn’s beautiful face was bitter and cold once more, near weeping.

“Do not say you will abandon me.” She said, her voice choked. Baerandwen considered her for a moment; it was Miriel that was best at this, but she thought of what Miriel might do and so took her by the hands, kissing the new flowing tears from her fair face.

“I shall not fall, for what love may I receive from you in death? Look for our victory and my return.” She said. Gimli was waiting for her; he had come to see the grandness of the caverns, having attempted to coax Legolas into them, to no avail. Surfacing into the night air once more, they spotted the elf who seemed overcome with joy, leading a familiar figure.

“Look what scoundrel has returned to us in our very moment of need!” He exclaimed.  
  
“Estel!” Baerandwen bellowed, calling Aragorn by the name she knew him in childhood and embracing him roughly, hearing him grunt as his back cracked under the pressure of her hug. She let him go and Gimil patted him roughly on the back, earning a cough and a smile. He was bloodied and filthy, but seemed fit enough. “We thought we lost you. I didn’t know how I was supposed to tell her.” She took his hand as if in secret, depositing something in it. He opened it to reveal the evenstar necklace he had worn for so long. This time he embraced her with one arm in thanks. 

Every strong man and lad remotely old enough for battle was ready and lined up upon the ramparts. Baerandwen stood at the wall, looking down into the night. A host approached, though friend or foe they could not tell until their horns blew, requesting entry. The elves of Lorien had come, a host of archers led by Haldir. Baerandwen greeted him at the gate with as much joy as her sister might have, embracing him by the lower arms in gladness. He seemed surprised that it was not Miriel who he usually saw first. He looked through the crowd behind her as if to spot her sister.

“Is your sister not with you in this time of strife?” He asked. Her face fell.

“She went missing in battle and we know not where she is or if she has fallen.” She said.

“Hold still to hope, Baerandwen.” He said. She nodded, but her heart was heavy to think about it. There was nothing that she knew to do about it but take orc heads, and tonight she would. Before she thought that perhaps she would join her sister in that in-between of life and death, but with Eowyn’s promise she knew that she must survive, lest she sadden her lady. Noble death still called to her, but it was the lady’s gentle touch that she kept in her heart. She could see well in the dark, but you needed no special sight to see the approaching torches, to hear the roars of fighting Uruk-hai as they marched ever closer to the walls. More and more kept coming until the plain was flooded with stomping feet and torches. Baerandwen had her axes, should they breach the wall, but until then she has a steady supply of pikes and would use them. They halted paces from the wall, beating shields with swords and spears, chanting in their foul language. She felt a shiver of fear pass through the men.

“Hold steady!” She shouted to her garrison.

_________________________________

Men and elves had fallen; Haldir had fallen. It was only the burning fire inside Baerandwen that kept her going through her exhaustion and her grief. But each blow of her axes seemed to amplify her rage. Orcs had taken everything from her. Her father, her sister. In a way, her mother. She lived, but was not herself, half mad with grief, only clinging to life for her daughters. With every spray of black blood, that animosity rang through her, true and bright. Death sang to her and she was its tool. King Theoden had not fallen, but he was injured. They had broken through the walls, only the keep was kept from their clutches. They had retreated into the keep to regroup and so she stalked back and forth in front of the great door with axes in hand as the king girded his strength once more. The doors rattled with the force of the orc’s battering ram and Baerandwen could feel the blows in her teeth as they clenched within her skull. She thought now of the women and children inside the caves. Mere doors away. She thought of Lady Eowyn who would not easily fall, but who _would_ fall if they managed to slaughter all the men.

There was only one of her. And so many of them. She raged at her helplessness, detesting it. They would break through. Light broke across her face from a high window and Gandalf’s voice came to her again, remembering what he had told her before he had left.

_Look to my coming at first light of the fifth day._

She heard the thunder of ten thousand hooves, running to the window. It was too tall and she called to Legolas to give her a boost. Standing upon his shoulders, she caught sight of their salvation, calling for all to hear.

“The riders! They have returned! My Lord Theoden, Gandalf comes!”

__________________________________

The hungrier Miriel got, the weaker she was. The weaker she was, the more the beast showed through. It came for her at night when her guard was down and as Boromir held her close. They were close to the city but it was at least a day and a half’s walk from where they had chosen to camp, there in the valley. Wind scoured the plain and swept over their unblanketed forms, causing Bormir to shiver and hold Miriel close in his sleep. She was sleepless, alive with fever. She was starving, trying her best not to toss and turn in the night. They had slept in the wilderness for months now, but tonight every pebble under her felt like a boulder and with every fresh wind she could feel Boromir curl a little tighter around her despite the dying fire they slept by, fighting his best to rest without freezing.

___________________________

Boromir woke early in the morning before the sun rose over the mountains around them, strangely warm. He had fallen asleep with Miriel in his arms but she was missing; he did not remember falling asleep against this pale rock, radiating warmth as if heated by the sun. Groggily, he realized what had woken him. It was _moving_. He was awake in an instant, throwing himself away from it and unsteadily to his feet. He called out for his missing companion and it moved again, the low thunder of lungs like bellows inflating filling the air around him. Stumbling, he found himself surrounded, a leathery sail sweeping through the air and encircling him, preventing him from staggering off into the dark. A monstrous head on a long neck lifting to look him in the eye.

Heart beating high in his throat, he watched the glowing embers reflect dully off her scales; the hatchling before him prone and guileless. Though Miriel herself was in her usual form, a woman in the full flower of her young adulthood, she had not yet reached the great age that a dragon might. He had been resting against the beast’s great flank, lulled by the gentle movement and rumble of her breath like far off thunder. It was the eyes that were the same, those feminine green eyes gazing at him with no threat in them. No; they seemed helpless. Boromir realized he had been holding his breath, releasing it in a whoosh as if winded. His hand, steady but hesitant, reached out to touch the soft blush of her scales. Unable in this form, or unwilling to speak, the eyes closed at his touch. A huge sigh left her, lungs crackling like a forge bellows. It wasn’t her fault. He didn’t know how he could bring her home like this, but he accepted that this was her, sitting carefully back down on the ground against her flank. Carefully, the great head lowered into his lap, neck wrapped around him to keep him warm.

Again, they slept.

________________________________________

Hearts light with victory, the men of Edoras had returned to their city. Those who had survived the battle had drunk to heighten their spirits...and to keep spirits at bay. They remembered those who they had lost, but soon the feast became a raging party. Baerandwen wondered how many victory children would be born nine months from now. Though Gimli drank with the appetite of a dwarf and Legolas matched him cup for cup, Baerandwen could not bring herself to compete with them. She caught Eowyn’s eyes from across the room, a moment of silence amidst the celebrating dancers. She brought Baerandwen a cup and finally she drank deeply; too deeply. The lady had taken it from her before she could become intoxicated, the two of them sharing it so neither played with intemperance. Night came and went. It was the wee hours of the morning before it died down, its players asleep or passed out. Baerandwen retired gratefully to a small chamber she had been granted, but before she could fall into exhaustion the door opened and a figure slipped through. Baerandwen sat up, but Eowyn put her finger to her lips and gestured for her to lay back down. She obeyed and Eowyn lay on the pallet beside her. Baerandwen was suddenly too aware of her own breathing, but the more she attempted to control it the harder it seemed to do so. Yet if she tried to stop obsessing over it she thought she might stop breathing altogether. The last time she had been so close to Eowyn had been before the battle and somehow she felt more fear now than she had then.

“I am unsure.” She whispered. Eowyn’s brows knitted together, her lips trembling ever so slightly.

“Unsure?” She asked. “Shall I go?” She made to get up but Baerandwen reached out, just stopping herself from grabbing her hand.

“No..!” She said, her hand halting over Eowyns and uncharacteristically, trembling as well. She felt if she touched Eowyn she might break her. How much flesh had she rent with her hands, and in moments of madness, her mouth? And these were the hands that craved now to touch the fair lady? It was folly. But she could not deny that she greatly desired what was in front of her. “I feel...” She began, hesitantly, as her hand hovered close to Eowyn’s, “I feel as if my hands are suited for nothing but violence. And to touch you with them would be to poison you with it.” She could see Eowyn’s pale eyes through the dark, harsh as flint and unwavering.

“My innocence has long since been lost, Lady Baerandwen. And nothing you can do can neither return it nor sully me further.” She said, lowering herself back upon the bed. She folded her hands beneath her cheek, those eyes steadfastly upon Baerandwen.

“The war is far from over.” She murmured. Eowyn reached out to touch her face, caressing her cheek. She considered Baerandwen for a moment, then swiftly, closed the distance between them and kissed her. Baerandwen’s body tensed, then melted. When they parted they both let out the same shaky breath, causing Eowyn to give a little laugh, resting her forehead on Baerandwen’s.

“I gladly give my heart to you, my lady, but do not think me worthy of you.” Said Baerandwen.

“That is up to me, don’t you think?” Eowyn said, winding her fingers through Baerandwen’s silky hair. She pulled her close and Baerandwen did not protest, kissing her lips again gently. When they parted, Baerandwen felt drunker than she had been at the feast. “I a shieldmaiden, and you a noble knight of the Riddermark by my side.” A knight of the Riddermark. She wanted her to stay in these lands, or follow wherever she willed. Baerandwen’s head was fuzzy, all the reasons why she _shouldn’t_ fleeing with the lady’s mouth, kissing her cheeks and forehead and again her lips.

“You will have to teach me to better ride a horse.” Baerandwen replied between kisses. Her hand met with Eowyn’s waist, feeling the slight give of her flesh under her fingers. She was warm in the cool night, her shift soft cotton rasping under Baerandwen’s palm.

“I will teach you how to ride, myself.” Eowyn said, sitting up. Some wild thought passed through Baerandwen’s mind that she was leaving, but instead she lifted her shift enough to free one slender leg, looping it around Baerandwen’s waist and straddling her waist. Her practical mind still denied that Eowyn, stern, cold flower Eowyn was doing this, practical words coming from her mouth.

“Shall I petition your uncle to let me stay?”

“Tell him what you will, as long as you don’t tell him this.” She said, reaching down and pulling her shift over her head. She was pale and perfect in the moonlight, long limbed and delicate. Baerandwen’s hands slid up her thighs and to her hips, grasping gently so as not to bruise her pretty flesh. She was more beautiful than anything she had ever laid eyes on, gazing at her enraptured. “Will you stare until I grow old, or will you kiss me?” Eowyn asked, a blush darkening her cheeks and a smile playing upon her pretty mouth.

“My lady, I would think you fair even as the age of men took you.” Baerandwen said, somewhat breathlessly. Swiftly she rose, taking Eowyn’s face in her hands and pressing their bodies together and kissing her fiercely. Disrobed as she was, Eowyn trembled as a fresh breeze came through the window, the hairs on her arms rising in a shiver. Thinking to warm her, Baerandwen pulled her down and pressed her lover into the pallet beneath her, only just restraining herself from using her teeth on her pretty skin. She kissed her clavicle, feeling Eowyn breathe beneath her. Eowyn felt so alive, so ripe for the picking under her and Baerandwen pressed her thigh between the woman’s legs. Eowyn ground her core against her thigh, gasping at the teasing pressure. Baerandwen kissed her breasts, teasing her nipples to hardness with her tongue and biting ever so gently. She covered her in these gentle bites, near trembling in her care not to cause her any discomfort. Gripping her hair, Eowyn pulled her close to whisper four words into her ear that made her lose her control.

“I fear no pain.”

Baerandwen released a tense sigh and bit harder, nipping at her shoulder and earning a gasp, but Eowyn did not flinch away, digging her nails into Baerandwen’s flesh and causing her to hiss. She could hardly restrain herself anymore, touching Eowyn’s petal-like lips, fingers pushing into her mouth where Eowyn wet them with her tongue, sucking lightly on them. The action sent a course of fire through Baerandwen’s veins, growling her arousal through gritted teeth as she nuzzled against Eowyn’s flesh, biting and kissing a path down her tender stomach. She reached the apex of her thighs and kissed the supple skin inside her thighs, earning her a shiver. She went gently, carefully, though the scent of Eowyn’s wetness was tempting. Lovingly, she pressed her lips against her, kissing her first and earning herself a desperate arch from the woman under her. More from instinct than experience, she played upon her with her tongue, tasting her and finding her taste as fresh and wet as the sea. She drank it in, burying her face between her lover’s thighs and lapping up her desire; so thirsty. Eowyn’s fingers ran through her hair and Baerandwen groaned into her, causing her hips to twitch and a small, panting moan to escape her mouth. With one free hand she reached up and clasped her palm to Eowyn’s mouth so they might not be caught, stifling her noises and causing her to lift her hips beggingly upwards. Baerandwen answered without words and Eowyn’s legs began to shake, her fingers raking Baerandwen’s scalp.

They fell asleep tangled in each other, Baerandwen still dressed but her laces loosened, flush with victory and ills soothed by the taste of the sea and the love of a shieldmaiden.

______________________________________

When morning came, Boromir found himself holding the maiden once more, though still warm in her feverish grasp. Secretly he thanked the Valar- for as much as he loved her, he did not know how he would explain her more vulnerable form to the people of his city- and that she was no threat to them. But as she was he brought her gladly to Minas Tirith, for they were both in need of rest and recovery.

They were so close; they could see the white city for days now and finally they drew near to its gates. Boromir was so excited to see his home again that he had taken Miriel by the hand and run. They were both weary and half starved, but they ran all the same. The guardsmen had recognized him right away, calling to their captain and receiving a hearty yell back. There was great celebration and blowing of horns as they were escorted into the heart of the city, past the white tree that was the symbol of Gondor, and into the great throne hall where his father awaited them. He had not heard of his son’s approach, as witnessed by the weariness in his eyes that seemed to lift as the doors opened and he laid eyes upon his eldest child. He rose from the throne with his arms outstretched and Boromir embraced him joyously.

“Father!”

“My son, Boromir, my son! I had heard...” He paused, taking in his state. “Your jaw is sharper than last I laid eyes on you.” Said Denethor, commenting on his thinness. His eyes lifted and met with Miriel’s clear green ones. Slowly, he released him, and Boromir turned to also face her. “What emissary is this?” Denethor asked. Knowing her manners, she curtsied low.

“Lord Steward.” She said, head inclined. He was no true king, but long had this man’s bloodline kept the white city and so she showed due deference. Boromir came to stand with her as she straightened, putting a hand on her lower back.

“Father, this is my wife, Lady Miriel of Lorien.” He said. Denethor seemed mistrustful, lowering himself back upon the throne.

“An elf?” He asked, eyes searching Boromir’s face for what madness had persuaded his son to take a wife, now, and here, and of that immortal race. She knew that in time truth would out. He had advisors and scholars at his beck and call, and through them he would likely discover what she was.

“I am the daughter of Thorin, son of Thrain, King under the Mountain, and of Lady Siladhriel of Lorien.” She said. Then a shrewd light came into his eyes; Denethor was no fool. Though she may be equal to or greater than him in age, he knew his histories.

“A sorceress.” He murmured. A warning bell went off somewhere deep inside her, remembering the weakness of men and their greed for magic that they did not inherently possess. Gracefully, she inclined her head once more.

“Gladly I offer my council and what wisdom I can muster.”

“And how came you to wed such a fine beauty from Lorien, my son, when I sent you to Rivendale to seek council?” Denethor asked, his eyes sharp upon Boromir. Boromir flushed slightly under the gaze of his father, then looked down, feeling the dirt between his fingers. Miriel sensed that Denethor’s love for his son was great, but underneath their relationship there was a strain.

“We are the last of the eleven that set out from Rivendale, though our task has failed and we must talk of the coming dangers.” He said. There was a calculated silence in the throne room in which the corners of Denethor’s mouth turned downwards. The expression passed like a cloud and he lifted his hands again to clap for attendants.

“Not the last. Come, you must desire a bath and feeding. I will make sure you get all that you desire. Welcome, daughter.” He said, holding his ringed hand out for Miriel to kiss. In came his attendants, accompanied by some of the citadel guard. A familiar face was among them, causing Miriel to gasp and clutch at Boromir’s hand in joy.

“Pippin!” She exclaimed. So he had survived and even beaten them to the city; if he had survived being kidnapped by Uruk-hai, who else of the company had made it from the battle alive?


End file.
